


Once Upon a December

by Iwovepizza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (briefly) - Freeform, Alastair Being an Asshole, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Alternate Universe-Progressive Era, Angst, BAMF Castiel, Bisexual Gabriel, Boss Castiel, Bottom Dean Winchester, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean can't speak English, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gangs, Gilded Age, Hate Crimes, Horseback Riding, Horses, Illegal Activities, Immigrant Dean, Immigrant Sam, Italian Dean, Italian Sam, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Major Character Injury, New York City, Nice John Winchester, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Character Death, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Coital Cuddling, Progressive Era, Prostitution, Protective Sam Winchester, Racism, Rich Castiel, Romantic Fluff, Sexism, Slow Burn, Starvation, Top Castiel, Violence, World War I, at one point at least, mafia, minor smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6308305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwovepizza/pseuds/Iwovepizza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Progressive Era is in full swing, and Castiel Novak, a ward boss at Tammany Hall, is surprised to meet two brothers fresh off the boat from Italy, seeking a new life in America as their dark past haunts them. A certain green-eyed man, who can't speak a word of English, catches Castiel's eye. Perhaps the English lessons the ward boss offers can strengthen their bond? But there are shadows on the horizon as an anti-immigrant feeling begins to brew, and the threat just might be enough to get the boys killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. My name is Iwovepizza and this is my first story on AO3. It was originally posted on Fanfiction.net, but I like the format of AO3 much better. I wanted to make a historical AU in the Progressive Era/ Gilded Age, because I thought the time period was one of reform and integration of different cultures, a huge step in the Unites States' history. Hope you enjoy, and please comment!

It was a cool, crisp December morning, and light filtered through the arched windows of Tammany Hall, illuminating all of the tiny dust particles that floated lazily through the air. Few people were in the building at this hour, especially in this particular wing of the hall, however there were a few huddled groups here and there that were chatting away nonchalantly and sharing a cigar or two. Bar maids distributed refreshments and alcohol, noticeable by the feathery plumes on their uniforms, though not much of it was consumed as the sun barely peeked over the tops of the buildings. This particular wing of Tammany Hall almost always had a very laid-back atmosphere, the paneled wooden walls and floor smelling of whisky and tobacco and leather, and the only real piece of furniture in the room, aside from the bar and the shelves used to archive the new arrivals, was a large wooden desk that sat opposite the arched door.

The Hall, whose infamous William M. Tweed, or “Boss Tweed”, had just fled after the Progressives’ backlash became too much, and the new Big Boss was a man named Michael, whose prude and very rigid demeanor rivaled even that of Tweed’s. The man was no better than the other politician had been, both who’d only took up the position for the money and power, but luckily he wasn’t the only ward boss that worked in Tammany Hall; there were others who worked more specific roles, and Michael was just the general man to go to. It was like seeing a doctor and, if they identified your problem, being sent to a cardiologist or neurologist, both specialists in their certain field.

The ward boss in this particular hall sat hunched over the swathes of papers on his desk, his fountain pen scratching away furiously as he struggled to fill out paperwork that was due in an obscenely short amount of time. Michael was a rival politician, after all, and he used the fact that he was technically the manager to try and get his subordinates to stumble. This particular ward boss, though, was holding out quite well, and his brow was furrowed in the deepest of concentration, focused beyond compare as ink flowed out of his pen in a delicate, looping cursive. Smoke trailed into from a cigar that dangled from his lips, spiraling and twisting like a ribbon until it dissipated, and he puffed on it as he labored. To most who frequented the area, this ward boss was known for his unappealing overcoat, colored an unsightly beige, but other than that he was a die-hard politician who was wholly and undeniably for the people, as well as his clients. His honesty may’ve been the reason why no one in the business liked him very much, calling him a reclusive introvert who cared about nothing but his work.

“C’mon, get a drink with us, will ya?” Raphael, yet another competitor, had asked him slyly on the politician’s first day, the corners of his mouth tugging into a very disquieting smirk that screamed trouble. Two others, who considered themselves independent but really just trailed behind Raphael and supported his every preach, chuffed a bit as they flashed their fancy tailcoats, gold cufflinks, and brass buttons. The ward boss had squared his jaw and shaken his head, ultimately beginning the race between him and every other politician that worked at Tammany Hall.

He continued to work diligently, not really taking much time to glance at the clock and only pausing to light another cigar after his last one burned up. His secretary, Hannah, came often to check up on him and, bless her, bring offerings of whisky that he downed in one gulp. Sure, the extra alcohol in his system would make his mind fuzzy around the corners, but it really took the edge off of the back-breaking paperwork and forms that seemed to have absolutely no end. He pulled his cigar out, holding it between two fingers, and gave her a thankful and shy smile, receiving a much more enthusiastic one in return. She knew that his people skills were a bit rusty, and the ward boss couldn’t think of anyone better to be his loyal secretary. He swore that she flushed a bit at the small smile, but he soon blamed it on the changing light and returned his attention back to writing, even though his wrist was throbbing dully. That’s when the door opened and, though the clustered men didn’t think much of it, the politician looked up. Thin hands. Sallow cheeks. Haunted eyes.

He rose to his feet at the sight, adjusting his overcoat and tie while stubbing his cigar in the ashtray, and walked over to where two young men, no older than he, stood silently. The shorter one held a single, small suitcase, one that couldn’t possibly hold all of their possessions, but the man was used to this kind of thing. They looked startled at his approach, like deer on high alert, and he felt slight pity for them as they gazed around warily.

“Welcome to America,” he said, flashing dazzling white teeth to the shorter of the two. This was politics. He could do politics. “Fresh off the boat, I see.” There was a short pause, and the politician wondered if he had a spider on his head at the look that the green-eyed man was giving him.

“No…speak…l’inglese,” he finally stammered, looking down as his cheeks flushed red. The blush was beautiful, just a slight tinge of red in the cheeks and on his neck, and Castiel’s tongue absentmindedly darted out to sooth his dry lips. The taller man put a reassuring hand on his companion’s shoulder, and the ward boss could only assume that they were brothers. Judging from the accent and the switch over to the native language, he supposed they’d just arrived from Italy.

He was just about to open his mouth to reply, since he at least knew the basics of the language, when the taller one intervened. “No need,” he told him, his jaw set, and the man could only admire the determination on his face. “I can speak English.”

“Very well, but just tell me if you don’t understand,” he replied firmly, his voice very businesslike, “I can easily switch to your native language if you’d like.”

“No need,” the taller one insisted stubbornly, and the politician shrugged, waving them over two the two hardwood chairs that’d been placed in front of his desk. He took his seat across from them, rustling through the many unfinished credentials and documents that were scattered upon the counter, and when he finally found what he was looking for he slid a group of papers in front of the English-speaking brother.

“My name is Castiel Novak, and I welcome you both to New York City, New York,” he told him, taking out his pack of cigars that served the sole purpose of sharing with clients. They felt more special and at home if they were offered from Castiel’s personal packs, and it was merely a business trick that he’d learned along the way. “Want one?”

“No thank you,” the Italian replied, waving off the politician’s offering politely. Dean, however, looked at least mildly interested, for he almost undoubtedly had never had a true American cigar before, though his brother cast him a look and he quickly refused as well. Castiel shrugged and lit his, popping into his mouth and letting it dangle from his lower lip.

After a few puffs he took it out, smoke trailing from the tip, and explained, “Just fill all of this out and I’ll be able to set you up with all of the necessities to make sure you’re living the American Dream. You’re going to love it here, I can assure that. Got it?” The taller man nodded, leaning over to his brother and repeating the phrase in Italian.

“Si chiama Castiel Novak.” The brother smiled sheepishly, that beautiful blush creeping to his cheeks again, as his brother introduced the politician, though his shockingly green eyes held exhaustion beyond any comparison, both emotionally and physically.

“So let’s start with names,” Castiel said, clapping his hands together and startling the immigrants slightly. “Hello, I’m Castiel. I’m the ward boss for all of the Southern European countries and am fluent in almost all of the languages.” He left out the fact that Italian was by far his poorest, and watched as the taller one took the suitcase from his brother and fished out two passports and other paperwork they’d been given at Ellis Island, all the while repeating what the ward boss had said back to his brother. Castiel graciously took them and flipped through the weathered pages, looking for their date of birth and other things as he took another drag from his cigar, letting the grey cloud trail from his mouth as he breathed out. Surprisingly, the tall one was actually the younger brother, though both were bachelors and came from Naples, Italy. Castiel had never been to Naples, but he’d heard that it was quite beautiful and at the moment had no big problems. If that was the case, then why did they come over to America? He found out that the taller one was named Samuel and his brother was named Dean, which was an exceedingly odd name for an Italian immigrant. Samuel was biblical, so he could see why their parents, John and Mary, would name them that, but Dean was a Greek name.

“Your last name is Winchester?” Cas asked, cocking an eyebrow at what one of the people at Ellis Island had written. Sure, sometimes they shortened or changed immigrants’ last names to make them easier to pronounce or spell, but this was downright rude. He couldn’t help but think how appealing it was for Dean to have the last name of a well-known gun manufacturer, which made him all the more alluring.

“Now it is,” Samuel replied, shrugging. “It used to be Wachardo, with Madre’s maiden name being Campbell.” Castiel was even more confused now.

“Campbell is Scottish, though. And as far as I know, the name Dean is Greek.” At the ward boss’ mention of his name, the brother in question jerked to attention, looking suspiciously from Castiel to Samuel. For all he knew they could’ve been trash-talking him and he’d have absolutely no clue what they were saying.

“Madre’s madre was from Scotland,” Samuel explained, “And she named Dean and me after her parents, Samuel and Deanna.” The politician nodded in understanding, and chuckled at Dean’s narrow-eyed expression, Samuel joining in soon after, which only made the immigrant even more flustered. Castiel couldn’t help but embrace the fact that he enjoyed Italian physique. From his chiseled jawline to his nice, tanned skin, to his tousled brown hair, to his dazzling green eyes, Dean wouldn’t have trouble finding a young woman who would be willing to marry and care for him and his home, and hopefully his looks would be passed down to his children. He felt a twinge of something like jealousy at that, and he knew to force it down before it grew. Sam wasn’t as up in your face as Dean was; he had that gentle, reserved look to him, and even though his hair was in serious need of cutting, he could still pass off as handsome.

Castiel’s thoughts were interrupted when Dean suddenly asked, “Le strade sono davvero lastricate d'oro?”

_"The streets are really paved with gold?”_

When Castiel finally processed the remark, a little slow, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as Samuel flashed Dean a look that clearly stated he should get his act together. The older brother glared back at him defiantly, muttering a few profound things under his breath that certainly didn’t fare kindly with Samuel, who clenched his jaw to keep from snapping at him.

“No,” he replied, and he saw Dean’s face fall, though the Italian made pretty damn sure not to show his disappointment. Castiel felt pity for the both of them, because America was overrated; it wasn’t that the country wasn’t better than where they were coming from, but the rumors that were flying around those parts made America seem like Heaven. He glanced back at the papers below, where it was written why the…Winchesters…had left to find a new life in the U.S.A.:

_We hav nothing but eech other._

Castiel swallowed hard, glancing up at the two young men, who were whispering furiously in lightning fast Italian, too rapidly for anyone but a native speaker to understand. He read more into the form, chewing on his lower lip as he skimmed the words. Even though Sam wasn;t really fluent in English, he wasn’t illiterate in the language, either; he could write letters just fine, however he wasn’t very keen on spelling them correctly.

_Our Madre dieyd in a fyre wen we wer children. Our Padre dranc himself to deth to weeks ago after obsesing over who may’ve startid the fyre, even tho the plise sayd arson was out of the question. Now we are poor and our hous was taken away frum us. We seek food, shelter, and jobs in America._

“Okay, listen up.” Samuel immediately poised, giving Dean a hard jab in the ribs when the Italian kept talking, and the green-eyed young man immediately silenced and copied his brother’s rigidness. “I can get you everything you need, but first I need to know how you learned English, Samuel.”

“Please, just Sam,” he replied, though his voice was taught and a bead of sweat made its way down his neck. Castiel didn’t question his rigidness, knowing that when you asked questions clients tended to grow irritated, but he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Okay, Sam, how did you learn English?”

A pause. “There was a British woman named Ruby who taught me the basics,” he answered quickly, his words flowing out in a hurried rush, and his shoulders became impossibly tenser, his eyes glazing over with something akin to regret and anger.

“Non prima che lei ti annegasse nell'alcol!” Dean spat, and Castiel was startled at the burning passion in those green eyes of his, as well as fury directed at whoever this Ruby person was. Dean could be beautiful even if he was angry and shouting in another language, and it took all of the ward boss’ power not to give a petty little star-struck sigh, like the one the women would make when they swooned and dropped into their savior’s waiting arms. Though Castiel couldn’t really piece the man’s words together, what he could glean from it was:

_Not before she drowned you in alcohol.”_

The ward boss turned to Sam, who was beet red and looked just about ready to throttle his older brother, glaring at him as if he’d burst into flames if he did it hard enough. Dean, seeing that he’d made a huge mistake, quickly began apologizing and saying he was kidding, but Castiel didn’t wrench his gaze away from the tall Italian. Sam swallowed hard, wringing his hands in his lap as nervousness clouded his features, but it was mostly fear, fear that they’d be denied and have to live in homelessness once more.

“Ruby didn’t only teach me English,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as his hand-wringing gained more ferocity. “She also gave me a drink. And then another. And then another. Pretty soon I was an alcoholic.” He looked up, wondering what Castiel’s reaction would be, but the ward boss kept his face a mask, for he’d learned and perfected his poker face during his years of participating in politics, and gestured for the Italian to continue, “We couldn’t afford any drinks and Dean was struggling to make ends meet with his job as a bartender, so I asked him to steal me drinks from the bar. He told me no, and I wasn’t surprised. He’s too righteous to steal,” he cast a thankful and brotherly affectionate look towards Dean, “But _I_ wasn’t. I took as much alcohol as I dared from the cellars, drinking myself stupid every night. Pretty soon Dean had to quit his job in order to help me get over the addiction. We couldn’t pay rent so when the tax collector came he took our house away. Dean managed to gamble and win enough money to get us two tickets to America.”

Castiel was silent for a long while, drumming his fingers on the desk as the two watched him in tense silence, the only other sounds being the bustle outside and the voices of the other people there. More were filing in, and Castiel was aware that the newest boat, fresh with Southern European immigrants, was scheduled to arrive in a half hour. Finally, he nodded and they relaxed considerably, their fear of being turned away disappearing, along with most of their worries and doubts. “What words of English does Dean know? He said ‘no’ and ‘speak’ before,” Castiel asked.

Sam pursed his lips into a thin line, turning to his brother and asking him the same question. After a slight pause, Dean broke out into an incomprehensible jumble of sentences. “Halloe. No speak Eenglesh. Yes. Ickscus me. Goodbye.” The young man was flushed a shade of red typically reserved for tomatoes, embarrassed at his lack of skill in the language, and Castiel couldn’t help but find it quite…endearing, but he quickly sook those thoughts away. He went to Church every Sunday and he liked women, had to like women, but he couldn’t help himself whenever his eyes slid to the spattering of freckles on Dean’s cheeks and nose, trying to count just how many there were. The young man would be lucky whenever he found a loving wife and settled down, whereas Castiel didn’t think he’d ever be able to find a woman that he actually loved.

“It’s a start,” he sighed, speaking up so he wasn’t alone with his treasonous thoughts. He needed to get into perspective just how much this family of two needed help, so despite the fact that it was a touchy subject he questioned, “How much money do you have?” Dean gave a questioning look to Sam, asking him to translate, but the younger man’s shoulders sagged considerably as he held up his large, empty palms. Nothing. They’d spent every last lira on their tickets to America, and now the only things they had were whatever was in the suitcase, the clothes on their backs, and each other. One of them didn’t even speak proper English.

“That’s okay,” the ward boss told them when they began to look anxious once more. “I’ve got it all covered.” He gave Sam a pre-made slip that had two addresses on it and two names. “I’ll call them up and tell him of your arrival, and everything’s already paid for.”

“Gabriel Novak?” Sam asked, looking up at him quizzically.

“My brother,” Castiel replied. “He owns the tenements there. Every week I send a great sum of food to him to pass around and make sure that none of you are starving to death, but make sure you pay rent in time or he’ll throws you into the street like that,” Castiel snaped for emphasis, and Sam paled considerably. “Don’t worry, though; he’ll cut you some slack until you and Dean are settled with wages. The next address and name is where you work and who your new boss will be.”

“Alastair?” the taller brother mused, his brows knitting as he skimmed over the rest of the information. “That’d an odd name.”

“He’s from Scotland.”

“Ah,” Samuel snorted, attempting not to sound snobbish or rude, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile. Alastair was, indeed, a rather odd name, but so was his own name. It wasn’t his fault that his parents were incredibly catholic and decided to name their son after some Angel of Thursday.

“Alastair runs the car factory in town, and I can make sure he puts you and Dean close to one another so you can make sure that he knows the ropes,” Cas explained. “But be careful. Alastair doesn’t like slackers and cuts workers really fast if they aren’t doing their job right. Heck, some people even call him one of Hell’s greatest torturers.” Samuel outright laughed at that, and Dean gave him an odd but hopeful look, as if Sam would relay the joke along to him. After the laughing died down there was a period where only silence reigned between them and, in order to avoid that silence from becoming awkward, Castiel said, “I guess this concludes our session.” He and Sam rose, and Dean quickly followed. He shook hands with the two of them, grinning, and handed them all of their paperwork back, as well as some of his own that he’d added.

“Thank you. Can we in any way repay you for your generosity?” Sam asked, and the politician had been waiting for him to ask that question.

“All you have to do is make sure you vote for me in the next election,” he replied, “The location of the best ballot places are on the forms. Again, welcome to the U.S.A, and I hope you can make yourself at home in New York.” He cast a longing glance to Dean, who was practically bouncing with joy and excitement at settling in the land of the free, and the ward boss smiled softly at the sight, only to be jolted back to reality by Sam’s reply:

“We will. Thank you again, Castiel.” There was very easygoing grin spreading across his face as he regarded the location of their new home. The politician couldn’t find the courage to sit down as he watched the two brothers’ backs while they walked towards the exit, and even though he’d undoubtedly see them again, he couldn’t really bear to not see those startling green eyes for such an expanse of time.

Just as they were about to slip out, Castiel called out to him, “Dean!” The Italian turned, his eyebrows raised and an expression of pure relief and bliss on his face, anticipation glittering in his eyes like gemstones. Sam paused, waiting patiently and still smiling like a madman.

“Ti piacerebbe tornare…err…alle nove e imparare l'inglese con me?” A pause as Dean’s face lit up, and even from his position he could see the corner of the young man’s eyes crinkling as he grinned.

_“Will you come at nine to learn English with me?”_

The politician steeled himself when he realized that the immigrant’s excitement was probably because the ward boss was offering to teach him English, much more than his brother could teach him, and not because of the prospect of seeing the Castiel again.

“Si, Cas! Grazie!”


	2. Chapter 2

Sam couldn’t quite extinguish his grin as he wove his way through the throngs of people towards the address that Castiel had written, anticipation fluttering in his stomach like butterflies. He was finally in America, finally free of the tax collector and Ruby and every other hell-ridden person who’d shared a drink with him. His eyes widened in awe as he regarded the towering buildings, made of bricks and concrete, whose windows glared down on the people milling below. The sky stretched above, an endless expanse of heavenly blue, dotted with breadths of clouds that resembled wispy cotton, the December weather very cool but not overly so.

 Dean stuck to his brother’s side as if glued there, his green eyes darting around warily as a motley of people ambled past; men, women, children, whites, blacks, Hispanics, and others of all races, ages, shapes, sizes, and cultures. Sam understood why his brother was feeling so anxious; he was in an entirely different country and everyone was speaking a different language than him. Had their positions been reversed, Sam probably would’ve felt the same way. Seeing his brother reduced to this state, however, pained the Italian to no end. Normally, Dean was a figure of bravado, all confidence and seldom shy; a figure to be looked up to, but now in this new land he was an entirely different person altogether, and had he not had too much pride for his own good, Dean would probably be clinging to his taller brother.

 A horse and wagon rattled past, stacked high with bags of flour and grain, and Sam’s stomach gave a very insistent rumble, which was soon joined by that of Dean’s own stomach. They hadn’t eaten since early morning, when they’d disembarked from that wretched steamship and finally finished their last slices of stale bread. Sam shivered when he reminisced of the time spent traveling overseas; it was awful, scarring even, and he had to force down the bile that was rising up in his throat. He remembered how tightly crammed together they’d been with strangers, how they had to sleep on burlap sacks and do their business in buckets, how once someone got sick the whole batch went down. The immigrant wouldn’t forget how, since he was the tallest and strongest, he’d been tasked with helping dispatch the bodies of those who had perished, putting him at even more of a risk of becoming sick himself. Men, women, and children’s bodies had been thrown overboard like waste, for there was nowhere else to keep them on deck, and Sam had watched them sink down, consumed by the lapping waves.

He was wrenched out of his memories when Dean lay a gentle hand on his forearm, and when their eyes met his older brother’s eyes were searching his, trying to find the source of his discomfort.

“ _Are you okay?_ ” he asked, the Italian rolling smoothly off his tongue, quite unlike the harsh, jolting syllables of his English. Dean really had a calming voice, capable of soothing Sam’s very pinched nerves, and the younger brother nodded in reply. “ _You were turning a bit too pale for my liking._ ”

 “ _It’s okay, Dean, I’m fine,_ ” Same assured him, this time sincere. He couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at how they’d used the phrase “I’m fine” so often back in Italy that it’d lost its meaning; when they said it they most certainly weren’t fine, and eventually they ceased using the lie altogether, facing their situation like it was. Dean gave him another one of those looks but finally nodded, accepting his answer for now.

“ _So, where’s our new house?_ ” the older Italian asked, switching the topic as excitement began to tinge his voice. He practically bounced as he regarded the buildings that stood regally on either side of them. “ _Ooh, I bet it’s that one!_ ” He pointed to a clean and polished structure whose metal terrace gleamed in the light of the noon sun, its windows sparkling. Sam shook his head and for a moment Dean pouted, but that’s when another building caught his eye. “ _What about this one?_ ”

 “ _No, guess again,_ ” Sam replied, paying close attention to the numbers that distinguished one structure from another. They continued on like that, with Dean guessing and Sam shaking his head, though smiles lit up both of their faces. The street, as they progressed, began to get narrower, and they had to squeeze between the growing numbers of people, which confused the immigrants to no end; if the street was narrower, why were there more people?

“ _Please tell me we’re just passing through. I don’t like any of the buildings here,_ ” Dean remarked, gulping a bit as his smile turned slightly nervous. Sam began to get worried as well, but they didn’t let the change of scenery bring them down, even though it was really trying its best to do so. Roofs were crumbling, people were emptying the contents of their chamber pots onto the street, splattering waste everywhere, and buildings leaned at a horrifying angle. He didn’t tell Dean this, but the numbers were beginning to get gut wrenchingly close to the number of their tenement. He and his brother skirted around the maggot-infested corpse of an emaciated dog, and both of them had to stop themselves from throwing up.

 That’s when Sam stopped, grabbing his brother’s sleeve as he continued to travel down the path. A rusty and dented sixty-six hung in front of an equally decrepit wooden door, and the immigrants swallowed hard in unison.

“ _Is-?_ ”                

“ _Yeah._ ”

Together they scaled the narrow stoop and stood side-by-side, though it was an incredibly tight fit, in front of the door to their new home. The walls were sagging, with the wooden planks that made it up rotting and even in some cases missing. The windows were mere holes covered by variously patterned fabrics that belonged to those who lived in the rooms beyond. Dean finally allowed his face to fall, and though he was expressionless Sam could clearly see the disheartened defeat that glazed his green eyes. The younger Italian tried to stay positive, tried to convince himself that it would be gorgeous on the inside, but eventually his smile disappeared as well. Slowly, Sam raised a trembling hand to the door and knocked once. Twice. Three times.

Though in reality they could barely be heard over the bustle of raggedy-looking people, those three knocks echoed loud and clear in the two brothers’ ears. They waited for a few moments, the time stretching out to seem like hours as they switched their weight from foot to foot and wrung their hands together. The doorknob turned from the other side and both boys jumped as the door swung open, revealing a short, fawn-haired man with very piercing gold eyes. Sam could see how he and Cas were related, and even though they had different color irises, both held that intensity that signaled the roiling power that was hidden underneath. Sam immediately knew that this man meant business.

“What can I do for you, boys?” he asked, sizing both of them up in six seconds flat. Dean cast him a panicked look and Sam resisted the urge to laugh at his anxiety. There won’t be a moment in his life where he’d wake up suddenly unable to speak English, though his older brother was acting as if that were the case.

“Your brother sent us here,” he replied, handing the papers over to him. Even he could hear how heavily accented his voice was, almost to the point where one couldn’t even understand him, and he felt thickening resolve to correct that. Perhaps as he exercised his use of the language he’d become more fluent in it. “He said he’d call you in advance.”

“Indeed he did, Sam and Dean. Come on in! You don’t want to catch your death out here in this December weather,” the keeper of the tenements exclaimed in a rather…flamboyant manner, waving them inside. The Italian immigrants entered, though Dean trailed behind rather hesitantly. “Make yourselves at home; you’ll be living in room twenty-five, on the second floor.”

“And who else lives here?” Sam questioned as Gabriel led them down the narrow hall, which led to a slightly larger foyer with a staircase going up.

“You’ll soon see; everyone knows everyone here,” he replied. There were doors lining the walls in this room, starting at one and ending at seven. Sam supposed that there would be more room upstairs for other tenements. “And what do you have to say about this?” Dean jolted when he realized that the keeper was talking to him, and he swallowed hard, looking down and flushing. Of course, this wasn’t what Gabriel expected the reaction to be, and he cocked an eyebrow at Sam. “Is he shy…?”

“He doesn’t speak English,” the immigrant sighed, casting a pitying glance in his brother’s direction. Gabriel understood and thankfully didn’t ask any more questions, gesturing for them to follow as he began to ascend the rickety wooden steps. Every time Sam put his weight down the board screeched as if being murdered, and he was pretty sure that he’d get splinters just by touching the railing provided. Gabriel seemed to be trying hard to keep this place in top condition, but the immigrant couldn’t help but feel revolted at the state of the building. The floor was in serious need of sweeping, the walls were covered in a thin film of grime, and there were more than enough unappealing scents that assaulted Sam’s nose, which he fought to keep from wrinkling in disgust.

“ _Do you hear that_?” Dean asked, and Gabriel cast an inquiring glance back at them when he heard the foreign language roll from Dean’s tongue. Showing no sign of knowing what they were talking about, the keeper’s gaze returned ahead.

“ _No_ ,” Sam replied, falling silent for a moment to listen, the only sound being the floorboards that wailed underfoot. Above the cacophony, though, the Italian immigrant heard a faint scraping and scratching sound, like how fingernails would sound if dragged down a wall. He turned to Dean, cocking his head in question.

“ _Rats,_ ” his brother replied through grit teeth. “ _There are rats in the walls._ ” Sam choked back the bile that was rising up in his throat, his heart rate beginning to quicken. Surely Castiel wasn’t serious when he’d put this address on the form. Perhaps it was all a mistake? America was supposed to be a place where things were better, and that surely implied that there would be incredible housing that was pleasing to the eye. Dean deemed to be thinking the same exact thing, for a motley of expressions flitted across his features, all revolving around a single emotion; nervousness. Had they slipped-up when they decided to come to this country? Then again, Castiel had guaranteed them food, water, and wages to top it all off, and Sam quickly dismissed the thought; anything was better than returning to their old life, and he was sure to remind himself of that.

“Here’s your room,” Gabriel explained, jolting the brothers out of their musings. A gleaming 25 hung on the door, and the keeper held out his hand, two brass keys nestled into his palm. “Don’t lose these, or you’re paying for them.” And with that said, he gave a dismissive nod of acknowledgement and left, returning to whatever task he’d been performing at the time they’d arrived. Hopefully a cleaning activity of sorts. Sam gave Dean one of the keys, keeping the other for himself. Slowly, he inserted it into the lock and turned it, a faint click being heard as the door swung open with a creak of rusted hinges.

“ _Fanculo!_ ” Dean hissed, earning him an elbow to the ribs for his profanity. “ _Is Castiel playing some sort of game?_ ” The apartment was practically a room, and one with an obscene draft as well. Both shivered as the air nipped at their cheeks and noses, curling around them and causing gooseflesh to crop up along their skin. Two small beds sat side by side in the far left corner, the quilts that covered them, though moth-eaten, looking so much more enticing than burlap sacks. A dresser that could be shared between the two brothers lay in between them, including an oil lamp that was almost expended; they’d have to buy new oil soon, for they weren’t keen on blundering around in the dark. There was a small kitchen area, with a counter, an icebox, and a cabinet, and a shaggy rug adorned the floor to make it at least slightly welcoming. There was no washroom in sight.

“ _There’s a shared washroom_ ,” Sam told Dean at his brother’s inquiring, and his brother scowled in clear distain. After a long pause the younger brother said softly, “ _I think it’s wonderful._ ” Dean gave him a look like he’d just grown another head, and Sam chuckled a bit, walking over to the lone window and drawing away the fabric that covered it to reveal a gaping hole in the wall that resembled a window. Their view was a cracking, mud-slathered brick wall, and Dean gave him another withering, yet unsure, look. “ _It’s_ ours _, Dean_ ,” Sam said indignantly, becoming quite defensive at his brother’s obvious doubts. “ _Not Padre’s, not Madre’s,_ ours. _We finally have something to ourselves, and there’s no tax collector to take it away from us.”_

“ _There’s Gabriel,_ ” was Dean’s snarky reply, shutting the door rather forcefully as to ensure that nobody was watching. “ _He can throw us out on our asses if he pleases._ ”

Sam rolled his eyes. “ _Yeah, but at least we’re guaranteed wages._ ” At that comment Dean’s face seemed to soften, and he gave the room another once-over as Sam explored the cabinets and tested out the comfort of the beds, claiming the one nearest to the wall as his own. Setting down their single suitcase, the young man waited in earnest for his brother’s final verdict. Dean’s eyes rested on Sam, and he smiled gently at the sight of his brother on an actual bed and not a sack.

“ _I can get used to it,_ ” he admitted finally, walking over and plopping down on the other bed. Both brothers finally felt the burden of that day’s excitement weigh heavily on their shoulders, bringing with it the hefty feeling of exhaustion. Sam felt like he was going to nod off when an insistent knock came from the door. Immediately Dean was on his feet in a fighting stance, his eyes cautious and wary but also slightly curious at who could be outside. Of course, it was probably Gabriel checking up on them, but when Sam answered it certainly wasn’t the keeper of the tenements.

“Hello!” a bright woman in her late thirties or early forties greeted, her faint blonde hair curling around her shoulders and her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled. A young woman was with her, undoubtedly her daughter, who also boasted the same blonde hair as her mother. “Gabriel told us that we had new neighbors. Others are on their way. May we come in?”

Dazed for a few moments, Sam finally stuttered, “Yeah, sure, of course. Come in.” He stepped aside and allowed the two women to enter, though they didn’t seem at all surprised at the state the tenement was in, not to mention the chilled air that shouldn’t be associated with a home. For some odd reason that bothered Sam, but he decided that it was best not to comment. “I would sit you down, but we don’t have a table,” he told them sheepishly.

The younger of the two waved him off, rolling her eyes, “Don’t get too uptight about it, Sasquatch, we don’t have one either.”

“Um…” Sam wasn’t sure of what to make of it, and the two laughed at his obvious bewilderment.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,” the older one assured him. “By the way, I’m Ellen Harvelle and this is my daughter, Jo.” Jo waved when she was mentioned, casting a very admiring glance in Dean’s direction, and Sam’s brother to immediately poise like he was a model basking in the limelight.

“I’m Sam Wachar-” he paused for a moment, remembering, “Winchester.” His smile grew a bit when he considered the fact that these were his neighbors, the people who would be living in the same building as he and his brother would for an extended amount of time. Hopefully that wasn’t the case, since this place wasn’t really one you’d want to live in, however Sam couldn’t really dwell that far into the future just yet. “And that’s my older brother, Dean.” Hearing his name, the freckled immigrant gave a small nod in the two ladies’ direction, flashing his signature half-smirk in Jo’s direction. Sam wasn’t surprised when Jo returned the gaze with equal vigor and enthusiasm, though the tall man knew that Dean was just playing like he used to do, and he was thankful that his brother was finally returning to his old self once more.

Those smiles had been practically nonexistent during those dark times, those confident eyes hollowed out from malnourishment, and Sam was well aware of the fact that Dean had, many times, forfeited his meager rations to make sure that his younger sibling ate well, though had he found out about it he would immediately be opposed; the two either ate the same amount or didn’t eat at all, and Sam felt that it was quite unfair that Dean thought of himself in such a degrading way. He swallowed hard when he remembered all of the nightmares he’d had where, instead of just a faceless person whom he had no ties to, it was Dean who he was throwing overboard, his body joining the rest of those who’d suffered the same fate.

“You’re Winchesters?” Jo’s question jolted Sam back into reality. “Like the gun?” Ellen was glaring daggers at her daughter for imposing such a question, but the blonde just shrugged nonchalantly. Sam was impressed with the girl’s audacity; most women her age were already married off, with families even, and they usually sat quietly and only spoke when spoken to like they were taught. Sam didn’t feel that that was right; just because a human had the ability to bear children didn’t mean that they should be considered of lower class. Heck, it was the land of the free and even the immigrant knew that women were barred from voting. It was all very twisted and manipulative, but Sam supposed he’d get used to it.

“You boys Italian?” Ellen asked, trying to veer from the sore subject, though little did she know that she’d just stepped into an even sorer one.

“Yeah,” he replied offhandedly, trying not to recall any past memories. “Though Italy hasn’t necessarily been good to us. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here” This earned him a chuckle from both women, and they both sat on the bed and adjusted their skirts to accommodate the position.

Dean threw him an accusatory glance, wondering why the two were making themselves at home, and Sam explained, “ _Welcome celebration, I guess. There are others coming._ ” As if on cue another knock could be heard, and when Dean answered a whole cluster of people filed inside without any invitation, and the look on the elder Winchester’s face should’ve been framed and hung on the wall; he was so appalled and shocked at the ill manners that he didn’t stop to consider the fact that that was how he acted on a regular basis. Dean’s sheer lack of regard to etiquette was the one thing that’d seemed to survive the wear and tear of the trip to America and the events leading up to it.

“These are all of the people who are actually worth something in these tenements,” Ellen told them with a grin, regarding the strangers that had invited themselves into Sam and Dean’s new home. “The others are recluses, though we all have our moments.” She rose to greet everyone while the two brothers stood off to the side awkwardly, totally unaccustomed to these sorts of social situations. “These people will become your best friends and your worst enemies, or both, but overall we still love each other, isn’t that right?” Everyone nodded and laughed, bringing up things that could only be inside jokes and past experiences.

“There’s Fergus and his mother, Rowena, both from Scotland, though the people at Ellis Island mixed up Fergus’ name and another’s, and now his legal name is Crowley.” The two in question didn’t really acknowledge their hosts, too occupied with bickering and nagging one another in lightning-fast scots, and the brothers automatically knew that the relationship between the two was a tedious one. “There’s also Megan, or Meg as she likes to be called, an aspiring suffragist and Progressive who I honest to God believe will make a difference in this world.”

“Nice to meet you, boys,” Meg told them in a voice that could only be described as drawling, her brown hair falling loose around her shoulders.

“You, too,” Sam replied, though his voice still sounded very uncomfortable. For a moment the Italian immigrant admired her excellent curves, further embellished by her skirts, however he quickly averted his gaze, knowing that that was beyond rude. Dean, however, didn’t really seem to get the message, and his brother quickly elbowed him in the ribs. Meg was a _suffragist_ , or a woman’s rights supporter and participator, and she most likely wouldn’t be too appreciative of male advances while she was fighting for women to gain equal rights to men. All it took was a rapid-fast explanation and the indignant look on Dean’s face was wiped clean off.

Ellen continued, “There’s also Lisa and her son, Ben.” The black-haired woman rocked a swaddled child, smiling softly, though there were shadows under her eyes. Little Ben must’ve been a terrible sleeper, but at the moment the child was cooing softly and waving his tiny, meaty fists in the air. Dean seemed even more drawn to Lisa, his eyebrows raised in interest, but he immediately caught himself when he realized that it was a disgrace to make romantic advances towards a married woman, and a wedding band gleamed on Lisa’s left ring finger. “There are others too,” Ellen said as if reading Sam’s thoughts; he’d been wondering where their husbands and fathers were, or if they had any sons. Aside from Crowley and Ben, there weren’t any men to be seen. Heck, even when he and Dean had been walking down the street, most of the amassed people had been female. “My son, Ash, and my husband, Bill, are at work with Lisa’s husband.”

“What about Crowley?” Sam questioned before he could stop himself. It was beyond rude to ask about people’s jobs, especially if one was unsure whether they even had a job. The person in question didn’t see to hear him, still very immersed in the argument with his mother.

“Crowley is a tailor,” Lisa replied, casting an amused look in the man’s direction. “This is his day off, though.”

“Well I’m glad to have met you all,” the younger of the two brothers exclaimed, looking around at the people who were his neighbors. They were so unlike the ones they’d been stuck with in Italy, who were cold and reserved and downright rude to them as their predicaments piled up, and Sam was pretty sure they’d celebrated when the brothers had left for America. He had a feeling he was going to like it here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if I'm clogging up your email with all of the posts; this was originally posted on Fanfiction.net, though I'm still working on it. Take a peek there and find out what happens in later chapters!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments and the kudos as well.

Dean had been severely anxious all day to meet back up with Castiel. So anxious, in fact, that for the last hour he’d been leaving the room sporadically to look at the grandfather clock in the front hall, willing for it to strike nine. The Harvelles and the others had left earlier, after an exchange of stories over very delicious baked goods. Dean hadn’t had a meal like that since his mother had died, since neither John Wachardo nor his two sons cooked. None of the conversations delved too deep into their personal lives, and they’d all been grateful for the distance, parting ways with them with benedictions and goodbyes shouted over Crowley and Rowena’s newly rejuvenated bickering. They were good neighbors, and Dean was glad for their stroke of luck, though he had no idea how long it would last.

Most new immigrants would be busied with unpacking all of their items and rearranging their living quarters how they pleased, but not the Winchesters. They had next to nothing to put away, their suitcase only containing two other sets of clothes each, two night garments, two coats, a scarf, a pair of fingerless gloves, a cheap bowler hat, and an Italian to English dictionary. The only other things they owned being on their backs, since they’d sold everything else to pay their taxes back in Italy. Heck, they didn’t even have anything in remembrance for their Madre and Padre; with heavy hearts they had sold every last piece of their mother’s jewelry, one by one until it was gone, and their father’s silver cufflinks and buckles as well. Anything that would turn a profit. They’d even started considering selling their shoes before Dean managed to win enough money to buy them both tickets.

The Italian immigrant was bored out of his mind, sitting at the edge of his bed twiddling his thumbs as he waited impatiently for the time to come when he could meet Castiel again. Those blue eyes of his were haunting his every thought, boring into his soul, and it took all of his willpower to divert his mind away from anything Castiel related. He had no idea why the politician was bothering to tutor him, and for free. The guy was loaded, probably worth at least several million American dollars, and _his_ cufflinks were Dean’s rent for the year multiplied by ten. Castiel probably didn’t have to go to sleep worrying about the draft that leaked through his gaping hole of a window, or about when the next meal was going to arrive; heck, he probably ate things that Dean wouldn’t even dream of. Dean didn’t allow this to make him bitter and cold, though; he was happy for the politician and his luck, and was thankful beyond belief for his generosity. America was a whole new culture to explore, and the immigrant wasn’t sure whether he wanted to dive headfirst into it; had the New Yorkers been anything like the scumbags on the street in Italy, who tried to cheat he and his brother out of every last euro, then perhaps Dean wouldn’t’ve been so accepting of his prosperity and wealth.

Sam, unlike his brother, was occupied, propped up on the headboard of his bed and reading the American newspaper that Crowley had given him. The candles that’d been scattered through the tenement were lit and burning slowly, casting ghostly shadows over their faces. Dean squinted at the front of the news, with a bold headline that was lost as Dean’s mind attempted to process what he was reading. The words were a bunch of gibberish to him, all scrambled letters and unfamiliar markings, though through the fray he managed to pick out a few select cognates, though when pieced together, none of them made any sense at all. His younger brother had informed him that it was called ‘The New York Times’, and as he said it pointed to the letters in the fancy font on the top of the page. Every so often he would narrow his eyes at the page, his brow furrowing, and open up the Italian to English dictionary to look up a word, no doubt storing the meaning away for later use.

Dean grunted, counting the seconds that ticked away. The flames on the candles danced and twirled like ballerinas, wax dripping slowly down their stout trunks as the fire burned. Sammy had something to do, but Dean sure as hell didn’t, and he didn’t feel like watching the candles glow for that long, though he had to admit that it was mesmerizing. After a few snorts and scoffs, all spread out through a long period of peaceful hush, his brother glared at him over the top of the thin, crisp pages.

“ _Is there something that you want to tell me, Dean?_ ” he asked, his eyes returning to the paper, still moving as he read the article. Dean had to admit, he was impressed with his brother’s multitasking abilities. Perhaps one day he’d be able to do that, too.

“ _No,_ ” he replied gruffly, swinging his legs up so that he sat the same way as Sam was sitting.

They lapsed into silence once more, and Dean looked around the dark room, which he had to admit was homey and cozy once the candles were lit, though he was still disbelieving of the fact that this was his new home. That wonder, though, was short-lived as his boredom demanded attention. A pause. He let out another grunt. Sam snapped the newspaper closed, officially boasting his infamous bitchface.

“ _Yes, Dean?_ ” the long-haired immigrant snapped, narrowing his eyes.

“ _S’nothin_ ,” Dean told him, inspecting his nails.

" _Dean._ ”

“ _I’m fine._ ”

Another bout of quiet, with only the sound of Sam’s newspaper rustling and Dean’s fidgeting breaking it, on top of the wind beating against the sheet over the window. Dean attempted to entertain himself, watching the candles and fiddling with his fingers, but nine o’clock seemed like eternity away now. He couldn’t play cards, he didn’t have a deck, and he couldn’t read, either. They’d found a Bible in their drawer, a customary procedure, but it was in English, of course. Sam had even offered reading to him and translating, but his brother had turned him down with a huff and mumbling something about how he wasn’t a child. The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like hours, and finally Dean coughed a little.

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

Startled, Dean jumped a bit, almost knocking a candle off the nightstand, but he quickly regained his composure. “ _Sorry,_ ” he said sheepishly. “ _Just bored._ ” Sam’s face softened in understanding, and he finally folded up the newspaper and put it on the dresser.

“ _Well you’ll be plenty entertained when we go to work tomorrow_ ,” he replied. “ _And if this Castiel is any good at teaching English, then you’ll be able to read the paper, too._ ”

Dean nodded, not feeling in for Sam’s pity. It was as if he were a lame dog who everyone felt bad for. But he had two working legs and certainly wasn’t a mutt, so he wanted none of it. “ _I’m going to go check if it’s nine yet,_ ” Dean sighed, rising to his feet. He blundered about the room, still unfamiliar with it, but finally managed to grasp the doorknob and slip outside, ignoring Sam’s suggestion of bringing a candlestick with him. He walked down the hallway as normally as he could manage, holding his hands out in front of him to keep him from crashing into anything. His weight caused the floorboards to creak and groan beneath him, and he wondered why there weren’t any candles outside of the rooms. Then again, this was the slums; he shouldn’t expect the halls to be illuminated. He felt around in front of him with his foot before taking a step, well aware of the fact that he could tumble down a set of stairs at any moment. The task provided him with something that would keep his mind off of a certain blue-eyed politician, and when he finally descended the wailing old steps, allowing himself to grab the unstable railing in the dark, he found that it was eight forty-five. He was expected to arrive at nine, right? So he should head out now.

“ _I’m going_ ,” he announced when he arrived back to his tenement, and Sam, who’d resumed his newspaper reading (God, how long was that thing?), immediately sprang to his feet. Dean turned to leave, noting how it would be dark at this time of night, when he felt a hand gripping the back of his collar and tugging him backwards.

“ _Not like that, you’re not,_ ” Sam growled in reply. “ _It’s a December night, Dean. You’ll catch your death._ ” He sounded like a worrying mother, but Dean didn’t comment since his brother would probably blow up and go on a rant about how cold weakens the immune system and stuff like that. The Italian didn’t really care about all that stuff, since he was ninety-nine percent sure that doctors had no idea what they were doing, but he put up with Sam’s fussing. Dean sat still as Sam wound the scarf round his brother’s neck, tucking it into his shirt and giving him the coat, too. Sam even bothered to pull the hat over his brother’s head and shove the fingerless gloves to his chest, which the short-haired man dutifully slipped on.

Sam extinguished most of the candles, excluding the one that he’d be using to read and one that he placed inside a candlestick, which had been generously gifted to them by Gabriel. The flame sputtered whenever Sam moved, but didn’t go out. Pulling Dean along with him, the younger brother tramped down the hallway, holding up the candlestick to illuminate his path. It took much less time than Dean’s trip, considering they had lights, and they were almost positive that they woke people up when they descended the wailing steps. Finally, they slipped through the lobby and out the door. The cold hit him like freight train, and Dean was surprised that the tenements were so much warmer on the inside, considering they had gaping holes for windows and not much insulation. The candle went out almost immediately, extinguished by the wind, which would leave his brother blundering about in the dark until he got back. The freeze nipped at any piece of exposed skin, causing goose bumps to crop up on Dean’s arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. There was a very substantial wind, which only added to the chilled air, and he immediately stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tweed overcoat, his fingers already beginning to tingle. Sam hadn’t bothered to put on his coat, considering the fact that he wasn’t going to be out for long, but even in this short time Dean got worried at his brother’s unprepared state. Sam was considerably, rubbing his arms as the wind buffeted them and his teeth chattered.

“ _Be safe,_ ” Sam warned, glancing warily at the dim, lamp-lit street with clear distrust. “ _This is a new country and you don’t know English and-”_

Dean cut him off, “ _I’ll be fine, Sam. Don’t worry._ ” His brother sighed, running a hand over his face and nodding. Dean kissed him on both cheeks, a fleeting sign of brotherly affection, and sprinted off into the unknown, already having memorized the route back.

 

\----

 

“Stop pacing, Cassie, or you’ll wear a hole in the floor. He’ll show.” At those words, Castiel’s head whipped around to shoot a withering glare in his brother’s direction. Gabriel shrugged and continued to swing his legs, not unlike a child, as he sat upon the bar in Castiel’s office.

“Don’t call me Cassie,” the politician ground out between clenched teeth. “I’m simply nervous, that’s all.” The tenement owner scoffed and puffed on a cigar, tapping some of the ashes into the ash tray and offering his brother one, who gladly accepted the offering. Smoke trailed and the smell of tobacco flooded through the room, but it wasn’t an unpleasant smell, like the smoke, however it reminded one of home or a log cabin. Neither of the two men, though, had ever ventured out of the tristate area and had no clue what a log cabin may look like. Night was beginning to settle over the urban area, like a nice, calm navy blanket that was spangled with glittering stars. Since most of the light in Tammany Hall came from the large windows, Castiel was forced to light the many oil lamps that were dispersed around the room, giving it an eerie glow.

“So why’d you offer him English lessons?” Gabriel probed, releasing a steady cloud of smoke from his nose. “You don’t normally do that as far as I know.”

“I’m kind to many of my clients,” Castiel snapped, finally exchanging his frantic pacing for shuffling through the papers on his desk. When all else fails, work. Work could distract him from many things, and if Dean didn’t show, well at least he’d be able to finish those files that were due tomorrow afternoon.

“What about that couple from Greece that you helped earlier? You didn’t give them any benefits,” his brother replied nonchalantly, attempting to dig deep enough to unearth the reason why the politician was being so generous. Sure, Castiel was a huge sap, not to mention a pushover; all the families would have to tell them was some sort of sob story and he’d have them up and running to the best tenements he could manage, preferably Gabriel’s.

“As long as they’re voting for me in the next election, _I don’t care,_ ” the blue-eyed man scoffed, scratching away with his fountain pen whilst using way too much ferocity than was necessary. “They’re happy and satisfied in Amercia and that means I’ve done my job, _which,_ ” he signed his name viciously, puncturing the paper when he dotted the ‘i’, “just so happens to have by far the most terrible work hours known to mankind.” Gabriel chuckled at how his brother’s shoulders were taught and his posture, aside from the fact that he had to bend over the desk to write, was rigid.

“Really? Then why did you send those Spaniards to Azazel’s? You know the conditions are rubbish and the man’s a grouser like no other,” the tenement owner chastised, cocking an eyebrow, though it was difficult to understand him as he mumbled around his cigar, something he'd been doing since he began stealing their father's packs.  Old habits die hard.

“No reason,” Castiel replied. His tone was short. Clipped.

“It must’ve been the fact that he insulted your trench coat and called you a…what was it… _bastardo rico_?” The politician look just about ready to breathe fire, his nostrils flaring as he fixed his brother with a stare that would cause flowers to wilt. He opened his mouth for a scathing reply when the door squealed open. Castiel was on his feet and striding over in two seconds flat, his overcoat billowing behind him like a cape, and Gabriel smirked and noted his brother’s flustered state. Dean slipped inside, closing the door gently behind him, and the tenement owner smiled at the familiar face. He had to admit that the young man was beyond handsome, his nose, cheeks, and ears rosy from the cold, and his green eyes blazed brilliantly in the light of the candles.

His clothes were worn, but not shabby, and dark blonde strands peeked out from under the rim of his bowler’s hat. The immigrant smiled at the sight of Castiel, a flash of dazzling teeth, and Gabriel was sure that women would swoon at the mere sight of him passing. Dean’s eyes wandered the hall, which looked so much more different in the dark lighting, and they finally rested on Gabriel, who gave him a wink and a small wave, receiving a small nod of acknowledgement in return.

“Hal-oe, Cast-eel _,_ ” he managed, sounding rather small and sheepish.

“Hello, Dean,” the ward boss replied when he’d overcome his shock-induced stupor, poising himself to make him seem more professional.

He leaned in to shake the immigrant’s hand, but Dean bypassed him and kissed him on both cheeks. For a moment there was a stunned silence as Castiel’s cheeks began to burn, right where Dean had kissed them, and pretty soon both men were blushing uncontrollably, the red skin creeping down their necks as the situation became more and more awkward between the two. Gabriel was drinking it all in like a parched camel. The Italian was muttering apologies over and over again, even as Castiel replied with a litany of ‘it’s okay’s and ‘it’s fine’s, even though he seemed to have forgotten that Dean couldn’t speak English.

“ _Well_ ,” Castiel stuttered as the bout finally ceased, leaving both of them still flushed a color reserved for tomatoes, “ _Let’s begin, shall we_?”


	4. Chapter 4

Gabriel left soon after, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at his brother when Dean’s back was turned, and bid farewell to his brother, who boasted a furious blush that stained his cheeks, ears, and the back of his neck an angry scarlet. He nodded to the immigrant, slipping on his coat and hat, and stepped out into the night. Once the two were alone, Castiel immediately got down to business, giving his brain no time to fantasize over Dean’s full, pink lips and how soft they’d be on his own. Seating his client in the chair that he’d taken earlier, the ward boss left his side to browse the towering shelves above, immediately finding and picking out an immense Italian to English dictionary, as well as a gigantic book labeled “An Italian’s Guide to English”.

“ _Don’t worry,_ ” he assured when he saw Dean’s distraught and wide-eyed expression, though his syllables were a bit halting and his New York accent blaring like a bullhorn. The immigrant raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn’t question the fluentness of Castiel’s Italian; it’s not like he had any excuse, being the one who was supposed to be taught English. “ _First and foremost, do not expect this to be a walk in the park. English is by far the hardest and most complicated language in history, with the exception of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs._ ”

“ _Hieroglyphs_?” Dean asked, cocking his head to the side, causing the ward boss to run a hand through his pristinely combed hair, mussing it. It would be difficult for Dean to be taught Italian words in English if he wasn’t aware of all the Italian words. He understood that, since he was coming from a family who wasn’t that large on funds, that Dean wasn’t able to have the complete education that he needed. Perhaps Castiel would be able to educate him even further, not just keeping these lessons to be strictly English-based. He stored his thoughts for a later time, and in response to Dean’s question waved him off in an “it’s-no-big-deal” gesture.

“ _So let’s reiterate what English words you know,_ ” the ward boss told him, switching to English and saying, “Give it a shot.” Dean was the exact definition of a startled deer, his eyes widened as a slow redness crept its way over his face.

“ _I’m not good. It’s shameful,_ ” the immigrant replied, wringing his hands in his lap and looking anywhere except at Castiel’s eyes. The politician’s expression softened even further, his mouth curving into a small, encouraging smile.

“It’s okay,” he assured, “You can do it.”

“ _I don’t know what that means,_ ” Dean replied, the redness of his face deepening to something akin to crimson.

“ _You don’t have to know what it means_ ,” Castiel told him, grasping his shoulder in a gesture that was meant to boost confidence, and even though it was completely platonic the ward boss’ hand tingled when he pulled it away. “ _You just have to try._ ”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, his green eyes bright with hesitance and determination, and with a deep breath to gather his courage, he said, “It-z o-kay. You. Can. Do. It.” He mimicked Castiel word for word, his voice even dropping a few octaves, unsure of whether that was actually a part of the speech or not. Then, in quick succession, he rambled, “Halloe. No speak Eenglesh. Yes. Ickscus me. Goodbye!” Castiel chuckled softly, and the immigrant visibly relaxed, though his brow creased as if to ask why he was laughing at him.

“ _You did great,_ ” Castiel assured him, and Dean heaved a sigh of relief that wrenched another small laugh from the ward boss. “ _Many of the immigrants in the city don’t even speak it in the slightest. Considering that you just arrived this morning, you’re way ahead of the game._ ” The Italian puffed out his chest proudly, finally allowing himself to grin, and God that smile was beautiful. Castiel nearly got himself lost in the way Dean’s eyes crinkled at the corners and how his joy was quite infectious, but he was able to wrench himself out of his musings before the pause became awkward.

“ _Now let’s get started._ ” He maneuvered around the desk until he was sitting in the chair next to Dean’s so close that their shoulders were almost touching. Castiel’s heart rate quickened, and it took almost all of his concentration to open the Italian’s Guide to English to the first page. “ _You see, the English alphabet has a few more letters than the Italian alphabet does…_ ”

 

-Җ-

 

“Ay, bee, see, dee, e, eff, gee, aych, iy, jay, kay, el…el…el…”

“Em,”

“Yes, em. En, oh, pee, cue, argh, ess, tee, oo, voo, zeta.”

“No, no, no. Tee, yu, vee… _you keep switching over to Italian whenever you get to T, not to mention that you keep skipping the W, X, and Y._ ”

“Mi dispiac…Sorry.”

“ _Yes! You’re getting it_. _Okay, let’s take a break._ ”

Castiel clapped Dean on the back, who grinned broadly like he’d just won an award. Even though he’d only partially recited the English alphabet, he was proud of himself beyond compare, and he couldn’t help but give a little bounce when Castiel’s back was turned. He liked the ward boss; he’d given him and Sam guaranteed food and shelter, as well as wages, and tomorrow was Dean’s first day at work earning wages to keep his little family of two going. The immigrant watched as Castiel fished a cigar from his drawer and lit it, puffin on it for a few moments before letting the smoke out of his nostrils in a deep exhale. He offered one to Dean, yet again, but he knew Sammy would disapprove and declined it.

“ _You drink?_ ”

At Castiel’s question, Dean gave a jerk and immediately shook his head ferociously. After Sam’s downward spiral, the two brothers swore to never touch a drop of alcohol again in their new lives, for they didn’t want history to repeat itself. Suddenly realizing and recalling what the younger Winchester had been through, Castiel quickly hurried to apologize, but Dean waved him off.

“It…is…o-kay,” he managed, his jaw set. Castiel beamed at him, and Dean couldn’t really deny that he was basking in the light of the ward boss’ approval. He enjoyed Castiel’s company, and was even comfortable enough to consider the man a friend. He’d never had many friends, too consumed with working and finances to ever think much of it. There was the occasional person who frequented at the bar that he would strike up conversation with. He knew their names, their last names, their wives’ maiden names, and their kids’ names, but never the deep stuff. He was just a bartender, an employee who was simply paid to be there and was just acting nice, and they’d always leave in the morning to go tend to their families. He’d watch them go with something akin to longing in his gut; the only family he’d had was Sammy, and at the time he’d put alcohol before his own brother if it came to it.

Dean always wondered when he would settle down with a family. A wife. Kids, maybe. While Castiel excused himself to pour a drink from his bar, since the barmaids were at home, Dean fantasized about what he usually referred to as an “apple pie” life. He’d be in the city, no doubt, and every day he’d come home from work to find dinner prepared for him. His wife would kiss him and their kids would scamper around their feet, laughing and jostling one another. In the mornings he’d light a cigar and let it dangle from his mouth as he read the newspaper and his wife set out breakfast. Boy, would he love her so much. Then he’d go to work and the process would begin again. The whole family would go to church on Sundays and his wife would rest her head on his shoulder as their kids belted out the lyrics to all of the hymns with enthusiasm, and maybe Sam would be there too with his wife and kids. He smiled softly at the fantasy, but his brow immediately furrowed; his wife’s face was always blurry around the edges, and when he kissed her he didn’t really feel that zing of being in love that everyone always described. In fact, no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t really see himself with a woman. All at once his beautiful home disappeared, along with his wife and kids, and he was left sitting in front of a desk in Castiel’s office.

The man in question finally rejoined him, grinning and taking a sip from his whisky. Dean knew he shouldn’t, but he missed the feeling of the drink burning down his throat and how, despite the bitter taste, it would make him warm and fuzzy after a while. Castiel raised his eyebrows in obvious query, but the immigrant once again waved him off. He was determined to keep clean, for the last thing he wanted was for the brothers to relapse back into their time in Italy. That time was the exit opposite of they wanted here in America, and he sighed as the ward boss reclaimed his seat beside him.

“ _What’s on your mind?_ ” Castiel asked, tapping his fingers on his glass and causing the amber liquid to ripple and quiver within. “ _You look troubled_.”

“ _S’nothin,_ ” Dean replied, and for a moment his mind flashed back to that apple pie life, but instead of the faceless wife there was Castiel, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His heart was palpitating, and all of a sudden he could feel everything; the heat that the ward boss was giving off that contrasted to the bitter cold, the man’s breath ghosting over his cheek as he turned to look at him. His fingers fumbled in his lap, his eyes darting around to look anywhere but the man’s beautiful, Caribbean ocean-like blue eyes. Ones that he could drown in if he wasn’t careful enough. His nervousness, though, only caused Castiel’s eyes to narrow down in suspicion.

“ _Are you positive that you’re okay?_ ”

Dean was flattered by the man’s concern, even causing a faint blush to touch his cheeks, but he knew he’d be scorned if he actually relayed his daydreams over to the man. Instead he replied, “ _I’m positive._ ” Castiel clearly wasn’t satisfied, but he didn’t push the issue.

For another hour or so they continued to work from the book, with Castiel correcting Dean if he was wrong and telling him how to pronounce tough syllables. It wasn’t many words, but the immigrant was proud of himself anyway. He was taking his first steps towards feeling wholly and completely American, and he was awed by Castiel’s knowledge. The ward boss gave him a brief summary of the country’s history, a subject that the man hadn’t even considered studying; the country started out as thirteen colonies, ruled by Britain, and they rose up in rebellion, waging war that lasted eight years, eight months, and twenty-seven days. The underdogs, despite facing their mother country’s nearly unbeatable fleet and soldiers, managed to declare their independence.

“ _We celebrate this on the fourth of July, when the Declaration of Independence was signed by our Founding Fathers,_ ” Castiel told him. Dean was drinking it in as if he were a dying man and Castiel’s words were the potion of immortality.

“ _George Washington really did all that?_ ” He knew his expression was one of wonder, not unlike a child’s, but he didn’t really care. This topic was just so interesting, and he couldn’t wait to get home to Sam and tell him all about what he’d learned. For once, maybe, _he’d_ be the one that knew the most, because his younger brother certainly didn’t know that the U.S. was once a group of colonies. They continued on, and Castiel told him that the Civil War had just ended. It was a bloody battle between the northern part of the country and the southern side of the country, and so many died that it just might’ve been one of the most brutal battles in history. It was over the right to own slaves, and the north prevailed and won the slaves’ rights. The southerners, though, were still bitter about this, being the fresh wound that it was, and advised that he not bring it up in casual conversation.

“ _Hey, did I tell you about the time when my brother lost his shoe?_ ”

“ _I don’t believe so, but I’d like to hear it._ ”

He told his story, tugging a few laughs and one mighty guffaw when he reached the punchline, and that’s how the night went from there. They returned to studying, and Dean learned a lot more English along the way, but it wasn’t as formal as it’d been before. They shared stories about their brothers, and apparently Castiel had six siblings; four brothers and two sisters, and Dean felt guilty that he’d complained about having Sam. He imagined his little brother multiplied by six, and shivered at the image of bitchfaces, puppy dog eyes, and hair in desperate need of cutting. Dean found that, when with Castiel, he learned relatively quickly, though his mind needed a lot of refreshing to retain information. He’d already memorized the alphabet from A-Z and knew the basic words for passing exclamations, such as: Can I have directions?, How are you today?, Follow me, Good, Yes, Can I have?, How much money?, amongst other things. He also learned about the politics and how the government operated, and he got firsthand loopholes and other things, since he was technically learning from an expert. Castiel told him that he’d eventually tell him about the money system, but until then he’d have to rely on Sam, who Dean was pretty sure knew next to nothing about American currency.

“ _So if a person says that you cannot enter due to the fact that you are not an American citizen, you can…_ ” Dean was tired, having the long day that he did, so Castiel’s voice faded into background noise. He studied the man’s face as he spoke, a voice nagging in the back of his head that he should be listening, but Dean had a lot of experience in tuning that voice out, too. He studied the creases as furrows in his brow that formed when he was concentrated. The intelligent glint in his gorgeous eyes, and the way his lips moved. God, those lips. All Dean would have to do was lean in, just a few inches, and their mouths would meet. He fantasized about how soft and coaxing his lips would be, or if they were firm and demanding. Castiel’s skin as pale from the winter months, on top of the fact that his work mostly remained inside, and couldn’t help but imagine peppering that skin with kisses, bruises, and hickeys, leaving his mark upon the blank canvas before him. Castiel also had an elegant neck, his muscles going taught and loosening as he moved, and it was not long on most people’s standards, but Dean was pretty sure he could’ve been a graceful swan in his past life, with white wings like an angel’s.

“ _Are you listening to me?_ ” Castiel asked, his voice laced with humor. This jolted Dean so viciously from his whims that he nearly fell out of his chair. He found that his mouth had gone completely dry, hearing that rough voice of his, like how gravel would sound if it could speak. Little Dean threatened to make a guest appearance, and he quickly shoved his feelings down, thinking of the most disgusting thing that he’d ever seen. The dead dog in the streets, bone-thin and crawling with maggots, came to mind, and the heat he was feeling immediately withered and died. The thought made his bode veer to the end of another spectrum, and he felt his stomach tightening in complaint. Not wanting to throw up and make a fool of himself, Dean forced the bile down and managed a grin.

“ _I’m just thinking how I’m actually here in America learning English, Cas._ ” When he say the ward boss’ astonished expression, he chewed on his lip as his heartbeat became even more erratic. “ _I can call you Cas, right?_ ”

Startled, Cas simply said, “ _Yes. Of course. Absolutely._ ” If Dean hadn’t been flustered himself, he would’ve laughed at the politician’s expression, which looked like that of a man who’d just been told he’d won the lottery. His mouth was lightly open, his brow creased as if he was wondering what was happening, and if his eyes went any wider they’d have to be considered “bulging”. This only lasted for a few seconds, though, because pretty soon he was a figure of confidence, his eyes twinkling and his teeth barely peeking out as he smiled.

“I think I might be falling in love with you,” he said suddenly. Dean’s brow furrowed.

“ _What does that mean?_ ”

“ _It’s a version of ‘I’m glad you’re here; I enjoy your company’._ ”

“ _Oh. Well, I’m glad that you’re glad that I’m here._ ”

_"You have no idea._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment your thoughts!


	5. Chapter 5

Samuel Joseph Winchester was going to _destroy_ Castiel Novak. It wasn’t like the guy did anything wrong, far from it, in fact, but if casting the politician into oblivion would somehow make Dean _shut the fuck up_ about him, then Sam would gladly seize the opportunity. Every. Single. Passing. Minute. It was all ‘Cas this’ and ‘Cas that’ and if Sam was going to go to his first day of work in America with bags under his eyes because his brother kept babbling on and on and on about Castiel, then sue him.

“ _Dean, we have to look presentable_ ,” he growled. “ _This could very much affect the rest of our damn lives._ ”

His brother shot him a withering gaze. Ever since he got home from Castiel’s office, being at 11:30 last night, he had insisted upon speaking in English, and apparently that applied to Sam, too. Sam, on the other hand, _hated_ English and everything that it stood for. Laid was pronounced like paid but not said, and said is pronounced like bread but not bead, and bead is pronounced like lead but not lead. But for some godforsaken reason pony and bologna rhyme, and the word ‘queue’ was pronounced ‘kyoo’ and not ‘kweeoowee’ like how the letters imply. It made Sam want to rip his very much-loved hair out and burn it. Why Dean was taking such an interest in English was a mystery, but Sam was glad that he was at least able to communicate with the natives here.

“Cas said that…fac-to-ry bosses…like to ex-pluh-oit us and that they…don’t…care un-less we can…hit…a button,” Dean replied haltingly, lounging back on his bed with his arms folded over his chest. Absolutely no care in the world, as if he weren’t about to go for his first day at work in an entirely different country.

“I couldn’t care less what Cas says,” Sam snapped, choosing the plain frock coat that Crowley had lent him over the worn overcoat that he’d brought with him from Italy. Dean took a while to process it, but eventually his brow crinkled and he looked quite offended, as if he were the one that Sam had insulted and not the politician. Instead of snapping, though, he shrugged nonchalantly. Rising to his feet to get ready. Sam couldn’t help but allow his face to soften when Dean turned away. He was so proud of him, and that wasn’t in any way sarcastic. Heck, he hadn’t even been in America for two full days and he already knew a lot of English. Of course, Sam had pictured himself and Dean sitting across from each other while he taught his brother the language. He wasn’t envious of Castiel though, and couldn’t help but wonder whether there was a catch to all this; a small print that Sam had looked over and would cost both him and his brother dearly.

When Dean was finally ready, the two whisked out of their tenement and down the hallway, where they passed Ellen and Lisa, who both bid them farewell and good luck. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, but then again Sam didn’t think he actually slept in his own rickety building; his brother probably had silk sheets, where he rolled naked in money in every night, and the immigrant wouldn’t put it above the man to mooch off of him until he was wealthy enough to avoid the nearly inhabitable conditions. Side by side, the two trekked down the road and towards the address that Castiel had written on the paper. The factory they were to work at was a Ford manufacturer, and Sam found that the details of what the job entailed were very vague to say the least. He didn’t dwell on that, though, as he was already worried out of his mind, and concentrated on the now.

He had to admit that America was incredible beyond imagination, and if every American city was like New York City, then boy was it wonderful and lively. Though a little dirty, New York was by far the biggest mixing pot of them all. So many languages buzzed in the air and so many skin colors flashed by that Sam feared he’d have a complex. Dean, of course, was ogling it like he’d just walked through the gates of Heaven, and whistled lowly whenever a merchant’s wagon rattled past. It wasn’t the merchandise he was impressed with, though, it was the damn teams of horses that pulled them, ranging from black to brown to dapple grey.

“ _Whoa,_ ” Dean breathed as a broad-chested Clydesdale paraded past, its horseshoe-clad hooves clanging against the cobbles as it pulled a wagon brimming with bags of flour. He’d unconsciously reverted to Italian, and Sam was very much glad for the reprieve. “ _She’s a beauty isn’t she?_ ” Dean of course, didn’t care that the Clydesdale was covered from head to toe in dirt and that her mane and tail were matted beyond belief, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“ _Yeah. Whatever,_ ” he snorted. Dean’s head snapped towards him, looking offended. Needless to say, Dean was a horse nut. Completely and totally obsessed with horses of all different shapes, sizes, and colors. He could tell a horse breed just by looking at it, and had he had the right tools, he could probably disassemble and reassemble one of the beasts in a heartbeat and have it out as good as new. The source of his die-hard obsession was a bit bittersweet, and even though Sam didn’t remember much of it, Dean had told him that their house had been so much nicer before their mother died. The small hut that’d always been a shed to Sam had once been a single-stalled stable.

 

-Җ-

 

"Man, Padre had this gorgeous, midnight black Friesian. God, she was beautiful, at least seventeen hands high,” _Dean indicated the height animatedly, though he had to stand on his tippy-toes in order to do so._ “Must’ve cost him a fortune, because Friesians are so damn expensive. Anyway, her name was Impala.”

“Impala?” _Sam scoffed, downing his seventh shot of the night. His drinking was starting to become a bit excessive, and he told himself that he’d take a break tomorrow, though he’d been saying that for the past week now. He didn’t usually pay attention to Dean, wearing his cheesy bartender clothes as he wiped down the counter and washed the glasses, but he was always in for a good story about the time before their life had gone to hell._

“Yeah. Pretty sure it’s an animal in Afri-something. That continent. Padre told me that impalas were so fast they could outrun cheetahs,” _Dean was getting himself worked up now, and his face was practically glowing as he scrubbed the counter with renewed vigor. Sam cocked an eyebrow at their late father’s statement._

“I find that hard to believe,” _he grunted, downing the final shot that he’d paid for, feeling the pleasant burn down his throat. He was disappointed when he found that the alcohol had run dry, but didn’t complain, his focus finally fully trained on his brother._

“Me, too. But Padre said it, so of course I kinda grew up believing it,” _Dean smiled wistfully, staring off into space for a moment, but shook his head to clear his thoughts and continued,_ “The shed was actually her stall once, and that’s why you’re always complaining that it reeks of horse. She was almost too big to fit, but we took her out often enough to make sure that she was able to stretch her legs, not to mention that the reason our fence is so high is so she couldn’t jump over it. She was a free spirit, and that’s an understatement; always bucked Padre off once a week, in play, really.

“She never bucked me, though, and had I not seen her act up around Padre I’d think she was just a good old sap. Pap taught me to ride on her; how to hold the reigns, sit in the saddle, and dismount without losing my balance. She was as fast as a bolt of lightning and it was a wonder why Padre didn’t race her. Instead, he used her to carry his blacksmith supplies back and forth from the shop. She was my best friend for a while, Sammy,” _Dean ignored his brother’s scoff at the childish nickname and pushed on,_ “When we’d let her out of graze I’d sometimes climb on her back and just sit there while she ate. She didn’t mind.” _Dean’s tone was now bitter as his eyes grew glassy in accounting just how great life had been before Madre died._ “Sometimes I’d fall asleep on her back and Madre would have to go out and get me so I didn’t miss supper. We kept her for a while after Madre died, because even though Pap had become a heartless asshole he still couldn’t give her up. She was the embodiment of happy memories, Sam, but then the cost of oats became too much and she, like us, would go hungry. She probably wondered why we’d stopped feeding her or why I felt lighter and lighter each time I rode her.”

_Dean was wiping furiously at his face now, and Sam had had just about enough. He’d wanted happy, and now that the story had took a turn for the worst, he just wanted more shots to wipe the memories away. Sam valued Dean’s company, though, and knew that if he walked out now it would leave Dean even more messed up than if he’d been able to finish the story._ “Pretty soon we had to sell her. I was the one that had to take her to town and watch as some bastard led her away and patted her neck even though she loved getting her ears scratched instead. I got good money for her though, and the man I’d sold her to happened to be one of Padre’s old friends- Bobby, his name was. She probably lived a good life.”

_To say that Dean was inconsolable for the rest of the night would be an understatement._

           

-Җ-

 

“ _Earth to Samuel, are you in there?_ ” Sam was jolted back into reality as Dean rapped on his head with his knuckles. The younger brother grumbled about being hurt and rubbed the sore spot, but it was only halfhearted. When he opened his mouth to ask what Dean wanted to speak to him about, he was soon silenced when he realized it was in plain sight. A huge factory loomed above, a huge complex of concrete and metal that glared down at them with cracked, dirtied windows. A pristine sign that greatly contrasted with the exterior claimed that this was, indeed, the brothers’ destination. Sam swallowed hard, craning his neck to see that it was at least five stories tall, though he couldn’t believe the fact that it was dwarfed by some of the other buildings in the area. Dean and Sam exchanged looks, and Sam found that his brother looked no better than he felt, which would mean that he looked anxious beyond power of speech. The building’s unwelcoming appearance only made it all the more stressing, and from inside there could be heard a great cacophony, like metal grinding and wheels churning.

Sweat beaded on Sam’s brow and he found that his palms fared no better, despite the bitter cold of the December morning. The work day hadn’t necessarily begun yet, and despite this Sam was just able to pick out gruff voices from amongst the clatter and screeching of rusted hinges. His brother was a source of calm for him, despite the fact that he was no less nervous that Sam was, and the immigrant was pretty sure that it was the same vice versa. Heaving a deep breath, Sam pushed opened the doors and stepped into the factory that would serve as their workplace for God knows how long. The doors groaned as they swung shut behind them, and no sooner did that happen did a mass of men, all clad in the same uniform, hustle inside. They all had dirty-streaked faces and grimy hands with chipped fingernails, and their clothes were no better, baggy and just as filthy as the wearers themselves.

Just as Sam finished looking his fill, Dean tugged on his arm and he came face to face with Alastair. His new boss. The man was middle-aged, but in no way was he frail. His salt-and-pepper hair matched his neatly tripped beard, and Sam was pretty sure that his cufflinks alone could supply him and Dean with gourmet breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a whole month. He grinned toothily, and even though his eyes were not pits, they were still chillingly cold as he assessed them with a look that a lion would normally give to a particularly plump zebra.

“I suppose you are the two Italians that Castiel had informed me of?” he asked, and his voice sounded no warmer than his eyes looked. Sam found himself unable to speak, so he nodded. “And he also informed me that this one,” he gestured to Dean, who tensed, " doesn’t speak English.” Sam was about to inform him of the fact that Dean’s English vocabulary had advanced in leaps and bounds, but Dean cut him off.

“I…can speak…some Eeenglish,” his older brother insisted, his jaw set with determination, and Sam would be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of his brother for being able to understand, much less reply. Dean’s face had that expression that he knew all too well. It was the one that he wore when he was gambling for the tickets; he’d do anything to get his way and make it right. Sam was grateful for his brother’s enthusiasm, considering that it’d been nearly nonexistent earlier that morning, and suppressed an outward sigh of relief.

“Very good,” Alistair replied smoothly, and then turned, gesturing for the two brothers to follow, which they did grudgingly. Many men milled past, most looking like immigrants, and Sam’s brow began to knit together. These laborers were filthy beyond compare, and none of them looked very healthy, or clean for that matter. They looked like they were only barely scraping by, and Sam was beginning to grow more and more worried by the minute. He couldn’t dwell on that, though, because he was too enthralled by the pieces of machinery that passed. There were full cars ready to be painted, complex mechanisms that Sam would only envision in his wildest dreams, and row after row of conveyer belts that crawled along lazily, transporting unfinished cars to the next station of assembly. Alastair stopped them in front of a row of mostly empty hooks, but some of them had old, baggy uniforms hanging on them. After giving the two a quick once-over, estimating their sizes, their boss selected two uniforms that’d been placed on opposite ends of the rack. The larger one was given to same and the smaller to Dean, but even at first glance Sam was sure that his uniform wouldn’t fit. It was just too small, even though it was the biggest size they had, and being the height he was, Sam was unsure why he’d expected any different.

“Okay, here’s my boy Tom that’ll show you two the ropes after you get changed,” Alastair told them, pulling over the first worker that happened to walk by. Tom grinned and extended his hand, which Sam shook, though hesitantly.

“I think you’ll like it here,” he told them, and Sam was keen to note the undertone of sarcasm.

 

-Җ-

 

“ _Worst. Job._ Ever,” Dean snarled as he practically barged down the street. He was still in Alastair’s filthy uniform, since he’d been instructed to keep it and wear it every day, and he hated it more than anything in the world. Sam was struggling to keep up with his adrenaline-fueled gait, and he knew something was wrong when a very nice-looking Palomino horse trotted past and Dean didn’t even bat an eyelash.

“ _Dean, it’s not that bad_ ,” Sam said, attempting to console him, but he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself, too. Dean halted, his brother nearly colliding with him at the sudden stop, and whirled around, his green eyes burning with rage.

“ _Not that bad?!_ ” The older Winchester’s voice began to rise in volume, to the point where passerby were beginning to stop and stare, wondering how this scene would unfold. “ _For nine dollars and six cents a_ week, _and a twelve hour work day, it’s pretty bad!_ _How are we going to pay rent? Our combined salaries won’t be able to pay that off!_ ”

“ _Dean, we’ll work it out_.” Dean getting worked up was starting to get Sam worked up, and for the first time since his feet touched American soil, he was beginning to have true and wholehearted doubts. He was lying when he said that it wasn’t that bad. It _was_ that bad. The working conditions were filthy, the equipment they had to operate was practically slathered in grime, and the “job” was so repetitive it was more like a small chore. Dean just so happened to be tasked with pushing a button that caused a machine to place the motor in the right spot. It was mesmerizing at first, seeing such an advanced machine take a motor from a pile and actually put it inside the automobile, but when one has to watch it over and over and over again, it gets a little repetitive. His finger was throbbing, though, and because he wasn’t allowed to occupy himself with any other things he’d experimented with pushing the button with all different parts of his body, though that’d immediately ceased when someone saw him push the button with his crotch. Dean didn’t regret it, though.

Sam had been much more fortunate in the job department, and that was the application of the wheels. The wheels themselves were already machine-made, but apparently the technological geniuses of America were unable to figure out how to craft a machine that actually put them on the vehicle. And Sam prayed to whoever was listening that they didn’t find out until after he was long dead, because from Dean’s recounting of his experience, he did _not_ want to be stuck on button duty. Sam could, however, now probably put a wheel on a car blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back while the car was raised on a platform six feet in the air. The job would’ve been much more exciting had that been the case, but no, he had to put on the back right wheel of a car over and over and over again. Sometimes he and his partners switched around when Alastair wasn’t looking for a change of scenery, but when he was, which was often, Sam had to do the same wheel repetitively for God knows how long.

“ _My week is hereby ruined,_ ” Dean mumbled, crossing his arms. It was eight o’clock in the afternoon, and they’d ventured to work at eight a.m. Sam could only agree, because he would be bluffing if he said otherwise, and felt the pull of exhaustion on his bones as they neared the stoop of their tenement building. The immigrant was surprised, however, to find Gabriel standing there waiting, a slip of paper clutched in one hand. He looked incredibly bored, but perked up when he saw the Winchesters nearing.

“Well, well, well,” he said with bravado as soon as they were within earshot. “If it isn’t Lockwood and Nelly Dean. Whatcha up to?” Dean grumbled about not understanding what Gabriel was talking about, however Sam grinned.

“Why, we’re talking about Catherine, of course,” he replied and halted at the foot of the stairs. Even with the boosted height, Gabriel still wasn’t as tall as the younger Winchester.

“You,” the landlord jabbed a finger at him. “I like you.” They both laughed and Dean crossed his arms and scowled, looking incredibly akin to a child pouting. Gabriel chuckled a bit more, but then he handed Dean the slip of paper he’d been holding. Surprised, the green-eyed young man took it and thanked him, praying to God that it wasn’t a bill for rent. It became dirtied at first touch, but the writing on it was still eligible.

           

**WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM**

**_Dean T. Winchester =_ **

**_66 East 12 th Street New York, NY =_ **

 

            _Hello, Dean. Wondering if you would like to come back and study some more tonight. Same place + same time. Italian translation on bottom if you can’t read this one. =_

_**Castiel J. Novak=**_

Sam read over Dean’s shoulder and his eyebrows climbed to his hairline. He was about to open his mouth to translate it, the Italian on the bottom be damned, but his brother quickly stopped him.

“No. I can read,” he said firmly, and Sam felt like he’d been slapped at the fluidness in Dean’s words. Minus the very thick accent, he could’ve been mistaken for an immigrant who’d been living in America for years. All of his syllables were correct and he didn’t stutter or halt at all, and Sam had to say that he was proud of his brother. When Dean finished reading, though he sometimes pointed to a word to have Sam say it in English and then in Italian (Including ‘wondering’, ‘tonight’, and, ironically, ‘translation’), he looked to Sam like a child asking permission to go play outside. He was a responsible adult that could make his own decisions, sure, but Sam felt respected when his brother silently asked him if that would be okay with him, considering the fact that he’d been less than thrilled when Dean arrived home so late.

“I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” he asked, and Gabriel chuckled in the background.

After processing it, Dean replied, “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support. Don't forget to leave a comment!


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel was waiting for him at the front of Tammany Hall, in all of his beautiful trenchcoated glory. Dean had to keep himself from skipping over to him, considering he was a mature adult and didn’t, under no circumstances, _skip._ What did skip, though, was his heartbeat, and he did everything within his power to make sure that the blood rushing into his cheeks was light enough to be mistaken for cold. The wind buffeted them both and Dean hoped that they’d go inside soon; it was freezing outside, and Mother Nature didn’t care about whether one of her filthy mud-monkeys was freezing their ass off.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean managed through chattering teeth as he rubbed his arms to keep warm, fingers turning pink from the cold. Castiel frowned at this, and at the fact that Dean’s head was bare and hatless, but he didn’t comment, which Dean was glad for. What was he supposed to say if the ward boss asked why he was only wearing a coat in this December weather? That he was poor as all fuck and couldn’t afford another one, since the cheap bowler hat and crappy fingerless gloves were with his brother just in case he needed them?

“I was wondering, Dean,” Castiel began, and Dean nodded to show that he understood. Castiel shuffled a bit, his gaze everywhere but on the immigrant’s own, and he wrung his hands, which were covered by expensive-looking gloves, behind his back. “Would you want to take these…err…study sessions to my home?” It took a moment for Dean to process the words, but when he did his mouth fell open.

“For real?” he asked, and Castiel mistook that for incredulity, struggling to cover for himself.

“It was a very foolish idea, I apologize-” Dean lay a surprisingly cold hand on Castiel’s shoulder to silence him, smiling softly.

“S’okay, Cas. I would...like…to,” he replied, his hand lingering for a second too long before he allowed it to fall back to his side. The ward boss’ face lit up like a child’s on Christmas, and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at his delight.

“Perfect. Come with me.” And with that he was off, leaving Dean to struggle to catch up. Despite the man’s considerably smaller stride, his pace was brisk and set, leaving the immigrant no room to strike up conversation as he was too concentrated on making sure that he didn’t slip on ice and kill himself. It was obvious that Castiel knew New York City like the back of his hand, and Dean couldn’t help but feel awed at the way the man took turns without second-guessing himself, pointed out landmarks without even having to look at them first, and led them faultlessly into the heart of the giant metropolis.

Even at this late hour, there were people milling this way and that, vendors hawking their wares, and dozens and dozens of wagons and cabs thundering along the cobblestone roads. Castiel kept glancing back at him, his blue eyes shining as he saw Dean marveling at the wonders of the city. Naples had been so much more different, so much more…plain. Here, at least one hundred different countries, religions, and races were being represented, and Dean came to the conclusion that it was big enough for everyone not to know everyone, unlike in Naples, but it was still a tightly knit community where you never forget a face. This was only proven when people whistled and leered at Castiel as he passed, the politician’s head ducking low and his brows knit in determination.

“Ay, whaddaya know?” jeered a burly man, whose teeth were so stained from chewing tobacco that carrots would make a run for their money. “It’sa aristocrat! ‘E should get an award fer venturing outta his estate!” He broke out into raucous laughter, as did the other brutes around him. Then he caught sight of Dean, and with his tanned skin from the long summers and obvious cut of his jaw, there was no doubt he was Italian. “And lookie here, da ward boss ‘as a terronee tramp s’well!” There was a collective roar of glee, and the immigrant balled his fists, his eyes narrowing. Castiel lay a warning hand on his shoulder and steered him away before he could get violent. They continued on, leaving the men howling and calling out derogatory names and insults. The immigrant knew that ‘terrone’ was slang for Italians who lived south of Rome and were usually farmers, the term beyond offensive, and his blood began to boil at the thought that these men believed he was lower than them.

“Why…do you let them…walk…all over you?” Dean demanded haltingly, grabbing Castiel’s arm and pulling him to a stop. The man’s blue eyes stared at him balefully, and the elder Winchester really wished he could somehow comfort the man, for in that moment every single worry line that Castiel had gained over the years was etched into his face, leaving him looking so much older than he actually was. He looked tired, too, as if the wear-and-tear damage of working his ass off all day had finally gotten to him. Dean wasn’t stupid, he’d seen all of the paperwork that was dumped onto his desk every morning, and knew that Castiel was being run to the ground with all of his duties. The men they’d encountered should be fucking ashamed of themselves; all they had to do was push a button or put on a wheel in rapid succession. They didn’t have to be in charge of the documentation of several thousand immigrants a day.

“It’s better that way,” he replied, and boy, he even _sounded_ tired. It was to the point where Dean almost considered calling the night off so the poor man could get some actual sleep. Then again, he hadn’t been paying attention to the twists and turns of the city, and was hopelessly lost without Castiel in there.

“Pardon?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Congress is beginning to shift. Becoming Democratic as Woodrow Wilson settles into office, and I have to admit that that man is one of the most cunning men I have ever seen in my life. He’s bad news for a Republican like me, but not for the reasons you might think.” He sighs, and Dean pretends to understand what a Democrat and what a Republican is; all he really knew was that they had polar opposite opinions and could never get anything done if put together in the same room. “I’ve never really tied myself down to a political party, Dean, but if you want to be successful in politics now-a-days, you have to give people the norm. The mainstream political parties. I’m not really a Republican, but Independents and others don’t stand a chance. And the thing is, even _I_ don’t stand a chance.”

“What do you mean? You have every single person you’ve helped voting for you in the next election like they promised,” Dean snorted, placing his hands on his hips. Castiel’s expression sank even lower, and the immigrant immediately knew that those were the wrong words to say.

“That’s the thing, Dean. With Congress becoming more functioning, they’ll notice the corruption of Tammany Hall. That’s what the entire system is. Corruption. It is _illegal_ to exchange favors for votes, and the country has been in such disarray that that’s the last problem that they need to address. Progressives are attacking us politicians. They are lashing out to change the system, and if they have their way, which they will, I’ll lose my job. It won’t be devastating to get another of the same pay, but if they get the income tax they want I won’t be able to afford my estate anymore.” Dean swore that he muttered under his breath about not even wanting it in the first place, though the words were lost to the wind.

“Then stop doing that. Once people see just how good of a guy you are, they’ll vote for you,” Dean insisted.

“I’m glad that I have a truly loyal follower who would vote for me even if I hadn’t given them a place in America,” Castiel sighs. “But I’m too weak. My competitors would slaughter me in an election if I didn’t have the leverage that I have. It’s because I’m just too unimportant, my real views unappealing to almost everyone and the views that I make up almost identical to my competitor’s. Even if I have money, I don’t have enough to do the things that the voters want.” Dean opened his mouth but found that there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, so he just gave Castiel a reassuring pat on the back as they continued farther into the city.

“Now look here, Dean,” Castiel announced, the old mirth in his eyes returning. “Here is how you do a proper New York City cab whistle.”

“A what now?” the immigrant scoffed. Castiel placed two fingers in his mouth, one from each hand, and let out a piercing shriek of a whistle, so loud that Dean actually jumped. He didn’t stay startled for long, his eyes widening as a gorgeous chestnut mare cantered to the sidewalk, halting just as fast as she’d come. For a moment he just marveled at her slender, lithe form and the way her muscles rippled under her coat. Castiel had to drag him into the cab, seating him on the left side while he occupied the right. The cab didn’t have two seats facing each other, so they had to settle for a side-by-side trip. Cas gave the cabbie directions for one hundred twenty-seven Seraph Avenue.

“M’sorry, sir, but this here cab don’t go off-island,” the cabbie told them. “Janice here ain’t as young as she used to be an’ is’hard for her to travel such far distances. I would take ya, I would; ya helped my sistah who came from Greece, bu’ Janice can’t.”

“Would you like it if I gave you boarding so you and Janice can rest for the night in my stables? We’ll be riding back as well, and I’ll tip you for all the extra money you would’ve gotten,” Castiel replied, and Dean turned to him, his eyebrows raised. He had to admit that Janice the chestnut mare was the most exciting part about this situation, but he still knew that such a long cab ride would cost a fortune. Castiel waved him off, but then frowned at Dean’s hands, which were clenched into fists in order to keep his fingers warm. His ears, nose, and cheeks were rosy from the cold. “Take my gloves.”

“For real?” Dean asked, awed as the silken, very, very expensive white gloves were placed into his open palms. He’d never _touched_ something that was so luxurious, much less worn them, and he held the gloves as if they were the crown jewels.

“No, you don’t get to keep them,” Castiel replied, smirking, and Dean’s face flushed with embarrassment. “These are my favorite gloves. You can, however, borrow them. You’ll look a little foolish, but at least you’ll be warm.” The immigrant muttered thanks in both English and Italian and slipped them on. They were a little small on him, but the insides were padded with fur that must’ve been mink or something because God these were the best gloves ever. Castiel laughed at his expression and the cabbie clucked to Janice, who took off at a brisk trot, the cab clunking along behind.

Needless to say, the cobbles of New York City weren’t necessarily the smoothest surfaces, and the cab flounced and jumped and jarred every step of the way. This caused the two passengers to flounce and jump and jar as well, and since there was nothing to hold them in place, there were some awkward collisions. The first time was by far the least memorable. Just a little jolt that sent their bodies smacking together. After muttered apologies they lapsed back into comfortable silence for a block or two. Conversation eventually ensued, and Castiel began to teach Dean more English words that he didn’t know, as well as the phonetics and other things that would send any non-speaker reeling with confusion. Needless to say, that was exactly Dean when he learned of all the little exceptions that were so numerous that the immigrant wondered why there were even rules in the first place. “I before E except after C” his ass.

Then the cab hit a pothole, and at that exact moment Dean turned to face Castiel and their faces crashed together. They held it for a moment longer than necessary, their lips locked together as their pulses soared into the stratosphere, but then they realized what was going on and leapt apart to opposite sides of the carriage. Spluttering and flushing colors that were usually reserved for tomatoes, the two men’s minds were reeling and stumbling along to process what just happened.

“So sorry, man, it just happened-”

“I apologize for my misconduct-”

It went on like that for a while, the two struggling to form coherent sentences and speaking over each other. They would pause at the same time to allow the other to speak first, but then when they saw that they were waiting for them they both began to talk at the same time once more, and the vicious cycle went on and on and on. Over the bridge to Long Island they were still awkwardly trying to uphold conversation, and the cab stopped only once to water Janice and let her have a short rest.

During that time, Castiel said, “I do have a…small fortune, Dean, and I don’t really have many neighbors. My siblings are distant and my family is a bit unstable, so please come to the Hall and tell me if you’d like to visit. Sam is welcome as well.” The elder Winchester nodded, though on the inside he was jumping up and down for joy; he would like to be anywhere but his cruddy tenement, so what better way to spend his time then hanging with Cas and learning new things? Sam would be proud of him. Finally, after what seemed like hours of awkwardness between the two, the carriage rounded the bend and onto Seraph Avenue, where Dean couldn’t help but let his jaw drop. Needless to say, Castiel’s…quarters…were the _only_ quarters on the avenue. No wonder why he didn’t have any neighbors, and “small fortune” had to be the biggest understatement of the year. The cabbie actually took off his glasses, swabbed them with his jacket, and then put them on again just in case he was seeing things.

A wrought-iron fence stood at least ten feet high, with spikes lining the top that gleamed in the sunlight. The gate itself was meticulously crafted to show two lions roaring and baring their teeth, one lion on one side of the gate and the other facing opposite of it. The gate’s hinges were connected to two large pillars made of stone bricks, and on top of them stood two marble angels, wings spread as they clasped their swords hilt-up in front of them. Their expressions were hardened, and they looked like two knights standing guard of the estate, and beyond lay rolling hills and towering sycamores, all barren as winter held the land at an icy standstill. The grass was pale and needed watering, turning brittle with the wintertime winds, but Dean could imagine the nearly endless swathes of lush green in the spring and summer, and his heart leapt with excitement at the prospect.

The cabbie, after overcoming his shock, took the key that Castiel handed to him and leapt off of the seat, hustling over to unlock the gates. The lions leered down at him and the angels watched with cold, unblinking marble eyes, and Dean didn’t blame the driver’s jittery movements as he pushed the giant gateway open and led Janice and the cab all the way through, leaving it once more to go and lock the gate behind him. Then they were back on track, and it was obvious that the neatly paved stone bricks of Castiel’s walkway were much smoother and more comfortable to travel on than the uneven cobbles. Tension still hung thick in the air from their accidentally intimate…encounter with one another, and Dean was glad to get out of the small, clunking machine as they pulled up to the front of the house. Castiel gave the cabbie directions to the stables and uttered a code word that would let the stable boy know that he’d come here with Castiel, and then Janice was trotting off, looking weary but relieved that she finally got a rest.

When the cab pulled away, Dean finally got a good look of the house, and he swallowed hard. It was modeled off of Greek architecture, with a row of beautifully polished columns supporting a triangular roof. Even from a distance Dean could see the Novak family crest emblazoned upon the roof; two angels flanking a shield that had an eagle etched into it. It took his breath away for a few moments, and Castiel stood by politely as he took in the scenery. The carriage drop off was a ways from the actual estate, and a winding path led through a small stretch of woods and a courtyard before it actually reached the front door of the house. Luckily, Castiel informed him that farther down the path that he’d set the cabbie on was one that led directly to the front of the house, just in case there was an emergency or simply lack of desire to walk all the way.

Despite the fact that it was midwinter and freezing, on top of the fact that all of the flora was nonexistent, hibernating in wait of spring, Dean still found it beautiful. Castiel gestured for him to follow and they began the trek towards the house. Dean was a bit stiff from sitting in one place for a long time, not to mention the fact that his ass hurt from all of the bouncing that it was subjected to, but he forgot all about that as he watched the scenery go slowly past. There was silence for a long count, a serene form of quiet that was filled just with the tittering of cardinals and the occasional call of a fox, however when Castiel broke it Dean didn’t mind in the slightest, because he was a loud kind of person that wasn’t really into all of the “peace and quiet” crap.

“Do you mind if my dogs join us?” he asked. “They make me feel safer, though they’re a little mistrusting of strangers.”

“I’ve never been…good…with dogs, but if they’re…nice…that’s fine with me,” Dean replied. As long as they weren’t _his_ dogs, he liked them. He didn’t see why owning a dog would be in any way desirable, but he liked other people’s pets. Castiel gave his best “New York City Cab” whistle that rolled across the landscape like some sort of bird call. The two waited, at a standstill, and Dean thought it would be really funny if they never showed up; he found that he liked seeing Cas flushed and embarrassed, but at the same time didn’t want the politician to feel self-conscious. He nearly leapt out of his skin when two tan blurs leapt from the underbrush right next to him, and he reeled back as two gigantic dogs bounded over to Castiel and leapt up, pawing the air as they barked excitedly, jumping up on him and circling around. Dean frowned when he thought of how much dog fur must’ve gotten on the poor man’s expensive suit.

“Dean, meet Achilles and Brutus,” Castiel introduced the two huge dogs in turn, and Dean found that they were indistinguishable except for the fact that Brutus had a long scar down his face, rendering his left eye a milky white, and Achilles looked much older than his partner. Neither of them wore collars. The two, suddenly alert of the new presence, growled menacingly at Dean, though Castiel smacked them both on the flank and they stopped immediately, though they did cast wary glances in the immigrant’s direction. “They’ll warm up to you soon enough,” Cas assured him, and Dean swallowed hard as he caught a glimpse of Achilles’ sharp fangs; these dogs were trained to kill intruders, which explains why they were loose on the property and not inside the house.

“What…breed…are they?” he asked, because even though he could tell a horse’s breed just by the sound off their hooves on stone, he didn’t know jack shit about dogs.

“Rhodesian ridgebacks,” Castiel replied, grinning. “I took them lion hunting with me on my trip to Africa.”

“Lion?” the immigrant asked.

“ _Leone_ ,” Castiel replied, and Dean’s eyes went wide.

“You…took…them _lion hunting_?” he asked incredulously.

“It’s what they were bred for,” the politician replied, laughing as the elder Winchester eyed the dogs warily. If they could take down lions no problem, they certainly wouldn’t have any difficulty in chasing Dean to the ends of the Earth and ripping his throat out, lest he got on Castiel’s bad side. He decided that it was a good thing that they were friends. And so on they walked towards the house, the dogs bounding alongside them, falling back to sniff something or racing forwards to check out a suspicious leaf, and for a moment Dean wanted to think that he was walking alongside Cas towards _their_ house. That Brutus and Achilles were _their_ dogs. He rubbed his thumb over a wedding band that wasn’t there and shook his thoughts clear of his fantasies, most which involved the tight smash of Castiel’s lips on his in the cab, the phantom feeling leaving him tingly all over. Little did he know that the politician, who looked deep in thought, was actually thinking of the same things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how to insert pictures. I drew this one of Brutus and Achilles for you guys but couldn't find a way to insert it into the chapter. It's in my documents right now, and the tutorials and things I look up aren't helping. Any ideas?


	7. Chapter 7

Needless to say, the shocked expression on Dean’s face when Castiel’s butler, Balthazar, asked to take his coat would forever be stored in the ward boss’ mind. He didn’t seem to know what to do, standing awkwardly with his coat in his hands, but eventually followed Castiel’s lead and gave the coat to Balthazar before the butler whisked away. Dean ogled at just about everything, from the marble floors and staircases to the towering quartz columns. He closely examined every little thing that Castiel had brought back with him from his expeditions overseas, and his questions came in a never-ending flow. Even Castiel had to admit that his house was grand, not to be a bigot or anything, and couldn’t imagine what Dean must feel. As far as he knew, the immigrant had never even had a glimpse of aristocracy before, much less ventured into the house of a person who had such money.

There were many paintings and portraits on the walls, mostly of nature scenes and fox hunts, but there was the occasional one of Castiel, his blue eyes staring critically at the viewer. Most of the time it was just his head and shoulders, other times he was sitting on a chair with Achilles and Brutus flanking him, but those pictures just depicted a stern-faced rich man who was nothing except for the image on the canvas. There were the select few, though, that Castiel really liked, and if his housekeeper, Naomi, hadn’t monopolized the decorating in the mansion, the other pictures would’ve long since been tossed into the fire.

These paintings made Castiel feel that, yes, this was home and yes, he owned this home. There was him and Gabriel on their horses, talking and oblivious to the fact that their sister, Anna, had paid an artist to paint their image. There was one where he was sitting on one of the benches in the courtyard watching the bees and the flowers as clouds flitted overhead, and one where Castiel was reading a story to his niece while Anna and her husband watched close by. His favorite had to be the one that depicted him by the hearth in his study, though. He was sitting in his favorite chair, facing away from the painter, with Bee on his lap and Artemis and Apollo curled up on the rug. He liked the way it reminded him of the good times, and that this life wasn’t some sort of sick, twisted illusion that fate had created to toy with him.

“Is that a…a…” Dean’s curious voice jolted him out of his musings, and he quickly followed Dean’s gaze to see what the immigrant was referring to.

“Tiger? _Tigre_?”

“Tiger?!” Dean was attempting to keep himself from bouncing about, and was careful not to tread on the tiger skin carpet that had been meticulously placed within the living room. The other servants, upon Castiel’s arrival, had set blazing fires within the hearths, and the immigrant was enchanted by the dancing flames, never seeing a fireplace so large in his life. Castiel once again pondered over the fact that he was incredibly, incredibly fond of Dean Winchester. The kind-hearted soul who protested when Castiel told him that the dogs had to stay outside, but looked sheepish when the man reminded him of their duties and told them that they never really came inside. The curious soul who asked about every single plaque in the courtyard and all the furniture in the house. The bitter soul who muttered under his breath, “ _Vorrei poter aver dato Sam tutto questo_ ” when he thought Castiel couldn’t hear.

_I wish I could’ve given Sam all this._

They eventually made their way to the library, and Dean looked like he was about to sing his praises to the book-crammed cases that scraped the thirty-foot ceiling. The library was by far the largest room in the house, and stood proudly in the west wing of the manor, and its rustic appearance would appeal to just about anyone. All of the oil lamps in the chandelier had been lit, and the shine of the small flames cast a warm blow upon everything it touched. It was still too dark to read by, which was the reason why Castiel had several other candles at hand, but it provided the cozy, cabin feel that the politician had come to adore.

Paneled wooden walls supported the arched roof, which was held up by beautifully embellished crossbeams. A thin, burgundy carpet lay across the floor, and there were long ladders on wheels that one could use, under incredible supervision, of course, to get the books on the upmost shelves. Castiel had many books lying open to the pages he had left them to, re-reading his old favorites, and Dean squinted at them as he tried to decipher what the words meant. He also seemed to shy away from the two elk busts flanking the huge cobbled hearth, their beady eyes boring into them, though Castiel had long since gotten used to their blank stares. Two gargantuan moose antlers hung on the mantle.

“As you can see, I’m quite the avid reader,” Castiel told his companion proudly, admiring his shelves. He seated Dean in one of the comfy leather chairs that was in the lounge, right in front of the roaring fire that crackled and sputtered. It was why the library was one of Castiel’s favorite haunts, the cozy feel of it being more home-like than the rest of his house. The arched windows cast squares of seemingly liquid blue-white light onto the carpet as the moon crept high into the sky, which was spangled with glittering stars and freckled with the occasional wispy cloud. The warm light of the fire seemed to counter that cool serenity, and Castiel went about lighting candles so there could be more light to study by.

He selected a few of his favorite volumes from the shelf and brought them over to the small coffee table, where Dean was gazing around with eyes so wide with wonder they could’ve belonged to a child. Bee, Castiel’s beloved Yorkshire terrier who also made this room her home, strayed from her plush dog bed to sniff out the stranger. Dean seemed both astonished and slightly frightened when the Yorkie jumped onto his lap and curled up into a fluffy ball. Castiel chuckled at the fact that Dean’s hands gave the dog a wide berth, and he mimed petting the dog, because really that’s what it came for. Dean followed Castiel’s lead and Bee was grumbling happily, snuggling into the immigrant’s stomach.

“I suppose you’ll be staying here for the night,” Castiel dared to say, because he really, really wanted Dean to sleep here. In one of his beds. Possibly Castiel’s. He shook that thought clear before it could fester; he had plenty of guest rooms and Dean would be content to use them. He didn’t need another warm body next to him…Castiel, for example…to warm and cuddle him during the cold of the night or whisper sweet nothings in his ear if he woke up from night terrors… Castiel nearly missed Dean’s reply, and scolded himself for thinking of the man in such a way. Heck, he probably wasn’t even a queer, and if he was, he’d sure as hell keep it quiet with organizations like the Ku Klux Klan beginning to gain more power in this day and age.

“I’ll need one of those…” Dean struggled to find the word and quickly began to flip through the English dictionary, so fast that it was a miracle he hadn’t ripped a page already, “telegrams!” In his glee he jabbed the word with a crooked finger and Castiel grinned at his triumph. Most would be proud of gained riches or successful work, but not Dean. He was just happy that he found the word ‘telegram’ in a dictionary. It humbled and warmed Castiel at the same time as he thought of how Dean was parading around in his worn slacks and shirts with as much dignity as he could muster. _This is what I have, America. It may not be pretty, but it’s all I’ve got._

“Of course, Dean. I’ll send one ahead,” he rang a small bell that’d been placed meticulously on an end table and Balthazar came running, practically a bloodhound when it came to summons. To his butler he asked, “Can you write out a telegram addressed to Sam Winchester? Sixty-six East 12th Street, New York, New York.” He nodded to Dean as Balthazar scribbled away furiously at a notepad he always kept in his coat pocket, signaling that he should speak his message and the butler would copy it down.

“Um…Hi, Sammy, it’s Dean. I’m going to spend the night at Castiel’s house ‘cause our cabbie is worn out. Not dead.” Balthazar quirked an eyebrow at that last comment but didn’t insert his opinion, because around guests he didn’t do such a thing. He was prim and proper around company, for the habit had been drilled into him ever since he’d dropped the f-bomb when Castiel was entertaining some foreign aristocrats from the Ottoman Empire. Luckily, they had been engaging conversation strictly in Bulgarian, but Castiel had warned him that his wages would be halved if it happened again. The real Balthazar was rude and snobbish, a true Brit in heart and soul, and he made sure that everyone knew it. Castiel was subject to horrible treatment and verbal abuse when he was alone in the house with his butler, but it was all in good nature. He was really indebted to Balthazar, who’d been his chaperone and employee since he was eight years old; without him, he’d be a snobbish grandee who couldn’t take a joke or an insult. He was beyond taking them and actually laughed along sometimes at the misfortunes Balthazar shamelessly pointed out.

“Will that be all, Mr. Winchester?” the very un-Balthazar-like Balthazar asked.

“Dean, please, and yes, that…will be all,” Dean replied, his words still a little halting but getting better by the minute, and Balthazar left with a swish of his tailcoats.

 It was a bit difficult to study with Bee insisting on lounging all over Dean, but Castiel noticed that the man took comfort in the little Yorkie’s presence, stroking her stomach absently as he scrawled out messy letters but letters all the same. It was quite unnatural how fast Dean was picking up on English, and when Castiel pointed it out he simply shrugged.

“I used to…work at a,” he shuffled around the dictionary and found his word after a minute or two, “bar. They spoke English. I guess I…stored some of the words.” Castiel found the answer valid and they continued to study until their backs and necks were cramping from leaning over the tables. Even though Dean insisted that he was awake enough to continue his studies, Castiel saw how his eyes were drooping slightly and called for a break. They retreated to the living room once more, where they reclined and exchanged stories of one another, considering they didn’t really know anything outside of the present. The only things that the politician knew about Dean’s family was that he had a younger brother, Sam, and his mother and father were dead, his father dying of a drinking problem. It was no surprise that Castiel found he was speaking much more than Dean, and that the immigrant often responded to one of his questions with a question, diverting the conversation back to Castiel’s family and childhood. The man looked a little tense, but all the same was intrigued at the ward boss’ life as an aristocrat, asking many questions about both him and America as a whole.

“Is there anything you enthuse about? To the point where Sam tells you to quiet or else suffer his wrath?” Castiel asked as he scratched Bee behind the ears. He also had two cats, Apollo and Artemis, but they didn’t like visitors and preferred to lurk on the top floors and in the kitchen to catch the mice that nested there. Dean didn’t really hesitate.

“Horses,” he announced, grinning.

“Horses,” Castiel repeated, his eyebrows rising. It would explain why the man had taken such an interest in the cabbie’s old horse, Janice. “How come?”

This was where Dean looked a little nervous, and the ward boss was about to change the topic when he replied, “My Padre used to have one. A Friesian.” Castiel whistled lowly, but had to admit he was confused; Friesians were very damn expensive, and he wondered how Dean had become so witheringly poor if his father had been able to afford such an animal. “Her name was Impala.”

“I suppose she was a childhood friend?”

“Yes,” Dean sighed, looking at his hands. He was sitting next to Castiel on the plush sofa, which gave the ward boss a clear view of his face, and he looked a bit pained as he remembered her. Bee even became concerned, ambling over to lick his hand, and he smiled, patting the small dog’s head lightly. “We had to sell her, though. After…what happened.” The mood became very somber, and Castiel was determined to lighten it.

“You know that I have an entire stable full of horses, right?” he asked. Dean looked like a child that had just gotten exactly what they’d wanted for Christmas. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, though he quickly recovered.

“Really?” he asked, and Castiel could tell that he was trying to contain his sheer excitement.

“Yes, and my collection includes a Friesian mare who’s at least a month into her pregnancy,” Castiel replied. “Her name is Amara, though.”

“Amara…what kind of name is that? She sounds like a….like a….prostitute.”

“She is no such thing,” Castiel replies, though his amusement bleeds through his voice. “Hates my very being, though. Will never give me a ride even when she’s not pregnant.”

“Well then who do you ride?” Dean prompted. “Because nothing, and I mean _nothing_ compares to the smooth gate of a Friesian mare.”

“I have a buckskin Quarter Horse named Lincoln Continental,” he replied. Dean couldn’t hold in his bark of laughter, which reverberated through his body and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was a beautiful laugh, and Castiel found himself smiling even wider at the sound.

“A Quarter Horse? Cas, you’re not some sort of…peasant like I am,” Dean raised his voice over Castiel’s objection to the self-degrading comment, though it was more because Dean had called himself a peasant rather than the fact that he’d insulted the politician’s preferred steed, “You have and Arabians and Gypsy Vanners and Andalusians and Akhal Tekes and you ride a _Quarter Horse?_ ”

“I love those horses dearly, but they remind me of the fact that I’m supposed to act like I’m above people when I’m on such expensive creatures,” Castiel replied, officially irritated by the fact that Dean would think of himself in such a way.

“I can see your point, but why? Also, the name’s a little…creepy. Naming a horse after the late President? It’s strange.”

“Quite,” Castiel replied. “But he was my father’s.” Dean’s mouth snapped shut and he looked guilty, wringing his hands in his lap and avoiding Castiel’s gaze.

“I apologize.”

“There’s no need to, but perhaps we can go on a ride together when the hour is more favorable.” Dean brightened a bit at that and nodded heartily.

“I would like that,” he said sincerely, still a little sheepish. Castiel loved the way it caused a slight pink to touch his features in the most endearing way. He wished he could run his hand over Dean’s jawline and down his neck until the pink faded away, but knew that that would be most foolish.

“I must return to my quarters, it’s becoming quite late,” Castiel remarked, eying the clock. It read that it was one thirty in the morning, and he was beginning to feel the effects of the sleep deprivation. He couldn’t stay up to such hours every day or else he’d be a dead man walking; all the work that he was sure he was going to receive tomorrow was going to pile up and leave him face-down and drooling on very important papers. “Balthazar will show you to your room.” As he said this, Balthazar came bustling in, and the three of them ascended the steps to the second floor. Dean began to sneeze almost immediately, and blamed it on the chill of December, though Castiel was concerned; even the smallest sneeze could mean the deadliest of diseases. Balthazar seemed to realize this as well, and thus gave the immigrant a wide berth, though Castiel knew he could’ve handled the situation much better than trying to avoid Dean like the plague. Artemis scampered across the hall and no sooner did that happen did Dean begin to sneeze more, rubbing his nose and apologizing, though he muttered under his breath something that wasn’t that kind towards cats.

Balthazar and Castiel exchanged a knowing look, and the butler eased his worrying. It was merely an allergy, and therefore nothing to worry about. They parted ways as Castiel retreated into the master bedroom, and no sooner did he close the door did his heart ease. Dean was doing all sorts of things to him, and he wondered whether those things were friendly or not. He wondered if Dean felt the same way, but doubted it. Castiel was one within what he could only assume was a handful of people who had the same problem, and he was nearly positive that Dean wasn’t one of those people with his issue. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be an issue at all, but a gift. He changed into his nightwear and crawled under the silk quilts and comforters, his head resting on the feather stuffed pillow. He stared into the darkness for a while, just thinking about Dean and how delighted he’d be when they ventured out into the stables, and he soon fell asleep only to dream about green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and kudos so I can make this story better!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your wonderful comments. I may start another fanfiction after I'm, done with all the other ones I'm working on on Fanfiction.net, and I already have the first and second chapters at the ready.
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT & LEAVE KUDOS
> 
> ***Romance starts in this chapter so warning for fluff!***

Dean had a hard time falling asleep to say the least. The bed was, needless to say, luxurious and comfortable beyond any description, so unlike the lumpy monstrosity back in his tenement. Speaking of, he probably wouldn’t be able to sleep on that godforsaken thing for a while, having experienced such coziness beforehand. Balthazar had led him two doors down from Castiel’s room, to the guest room that was more grand than the combined work of every house Dean had ever stepped foot in, though not many of those houses had been estates like this one. The bed was a canopy bed, with an intricately patterned but thin silk sheet draped over the top, and there were mounds and mounds of pillows at Dean’s disposal, all of which he sunk into like a damaged ship sinking into the sea. He was exhausted, after a night of intense studying, but he felt like he was learning very quickly. Pretty soon he’d be an expert, and maybe he’d surpass Sam one day.

Even though the thick, heavy green comforter was lush and kept the cold of December at bay, along with the fact that Balthazar had built a fire to help warm the room, Dean wasn’t used to this solitariness. Throughout his life, he’d always shared a room with Sam, heck he’d been packed in on the ship with the other immigrants so tightly he could barely move without jabbing or kicking someone. It was a bit unnerving to have an entire room to himself, being so used to a warm body being nearby. Of course, Cas was just a few doors down, but that wasn’t the same as sleeping in the same room. The shadows began to sneak up on him, their eyes glinting as they waited to pounce on Dean in his vulnerable state. The huge windows that cast squares of moonlight onto the floor, as well as the blazing of the fire, kept these creatures at bay, but that didn’t ward off the feeling of helplessness. What if something happened? What if Dean couldn’t get to someone in time? The Italian batted away these thoughts, shaking his head solemnly and sinking ever so farther into the mattress. He wasn’t a child. He was well aware that the things that went bump in the night weren't real, but coming from an incredibly superstitious family from Naples, he’d always had that small fear festering in the back of his mind that there were creatures out to get him. Despite all of Dean's worries, the crackling and sputtering of the fire was very, very soothing, and the old manor creaked and groaned with the wind, which wasn’t as creepy as Dean thought it would be; it was more like comforting music, the house lulling him into a trancelike state. On top of the fact that tomorrow was Sunday and therefore no work, Dean began to drift off against his will.

 _"_ C’mon, Dean, climb up and on _,” his Padre said, smiling a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Dean was having a bit of trouble, since Impala was so big, and John had to hoist him up and plop him into the saddle. The young boy clung tightly to the horn as his father adjusted the stirrups to accommodate his incredibly short legs. John stepped back and beamed when he saw his son sitting tall on the back of his majestic, beautiful black horse, but eventually rushed to take Impala’s reins in hand when both the horse and her rider began to become restless. Dean was new, but not once did he fall off. His father told him how to sit in the saddle and how to hold the reins, and soon enough the four-year-old was walking around the ring, steering Impala by himself without having John lead her._

_Impala moved like fluid, each step graceful precise upon the ground, and Dean could feel the power humming in her muscles as she strutted around the small ring. Over the next few weeks, John told him how to sit back in the saddle when he finally got to trotting, and how to post on the right diagonal, lest he encounter an English saddle anytime soon. Dean remembered being so happy during those lessons, private and intimate after his father finally got home from work. The feeling of Impala moving under him, her legs pumping as he steered her around empty barrels and over homemade jumps while his father jogged alongside, shouting encouragements to him was fantastic. These were his fondest memories of his father. The way he swept him off Impala and twirled him in the air, around and around as he praised him and smothered him in bear hugs. That was probably the reason why it’d been so hard to let go of that image of him after mother had died. To him, the poor man who drowned himself in booze had once been something more, and he kept hoping that that part of his father would shine through. The whole illusion had shattered when Dean had sold Impala, and as he watched her and Bobby disappear into the throngs of people, the nice memories of his Padre had disappeared along with her. His father had died a week later from alcohol poisoning._

Dean woke with the rising sun, knowing that his dreams had been pleasant but bittersweet, though their memory slowly faded until it was gone. He rubbed his eyes blearily, and it took him a while to figure out that he was in Castiel’s guest room. For the first time in his life he'd woken up in a nice bed, in an even nicer room, on an estate that, even though it wasn't his, made him feel rich. The sensation of waking to this wasn’t unpleasant, just…alien. The fire was burning low, its wood having been restocked during the night by servants, and the embers were glowing faintly as the flames slowly devoured an old log. Dean had slept in the same clothes as he’d worn all day yesterday, much to Balthazar’s disgust (He was not wearing a fucking _nightgown_ to bed), and he felt a little grungy. It was like the butler was psychic or something because no sooner did he wake up did the Brit bustle in without knocking, ordering him towards the bathroom that branched off of the bedroom. Still a bit groggy, he allowed the servants, which Balthazar had brought along, usher him inside.

A toilet sat in the corner, one whose chamber pot was thankfully empty and ready to be used, and a beautiful porcelain basin served as a tub. The floor was a luxurious white tile, and the walls were paneled wood, giving it a rustic and cabin-y feel to it. Dean seemed startled as he regarded the mirror over the sink, and an equally astonished young man stared back. The immigrant only really used mirrors for shaving, and never really got a close look at himself. No more was he the doe-eyed, curious boy he once knew. Instead he was a rugged, hardened adult with tired eyes that spoke of seeing too much in too little time. He supposed that that was the case. More servants arrived, carrying steaming buckets of warm water, and they filled the tub to the brim while the other servants shaved him and stripped him until he was as naked as the day he was born. He flushed a little at the exposure, the chilled air nipping at his skin, but the women didn’t even bat an eyelid. Even the men who were helping fill the large tub paid no heed to Dean’s nakedness, not even taking a second glance. Slowly, he lowered himself into the tub, hissing slightly at the temperature, but it soon became relaxing as he laid back and sighed in content.

He was in such a blissful state that he was only mildly concerned when the servants, wrinkling their noses in disgust, carried his clothes and boots out of the room, no doubt to bring to the laundering house. He was handed a bar of soap and a sodden rag and began to rub himself clean of weeks’ worth of grime off of his body. He felt like he was shining and squeaky clean by the time he was finished, and the servants moved to wash and condition his hair with odd soaps that smelled incredible. He was greatly enjoying the pampering, but then felt guilty that Sam couldn’t experience the same, probably holed up in the tenement reading as of now. That sobered his mood for the rest of the bath, which lasted until the water turned cool, and he stepped out to allow the servants to dry him off. They left afterwards, leaving him standing naked on the drying mat clutching a damp towel in his hands, which he eventually wrapped around his waist as he ventured back into the room. Then he saw the outfit laid out for him.

There was a neat, crisp button-down shirt that was a pleasant olive color spread out on the bed, along with the pair of fur-padded gloves Castiel had given him the other day. Those weren’t what surprised him, though; what surprised him were a pair of tan breeches, a black button-up riding coat, crisp and unused leather chaps, and a pair of black leather riding boots to match, ones that looked suspiciously like Dean’s size. He gaped at them for a few moments, knowing exactly what the attire meant (as well as the fact that Cas must’ve picked them out, which made him blush bright red), and scrambled to put everything on. By the time the outfit was complete and snug on Dean’s body, all the clothing fitting scarily well, he felt like his young self again. Sure, he never had any of this fancy stuff, but he hadn’t ridden a horse since that last ride he’d had with Impala, where he’d run her around the pen and then ridden her hard through the city, a last hurrah before he watched Bobby lead her away, though the large pouch of liras in his jacket pocket had reminded him of all the food he could get Sam now.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Dean cried as he examined himself in the mirror that was at least eight feet tall, embellished with a wooden frame that was intricately carved. The gizmo probably cost more money than Dean had ever had at one time in his life. He turned to see Balthazar poke his head into the room keeping the rest of his body out in the hall as if he couldn’t be bothered with entering entirely.

“Meet Master Novak in the dining hall for breakfast at eight thirty sharp,” he stated without preamble, giving Dean an appreciative once-over before disappearing just as quickly as he’d arrived. The immigrant was hesitant to go at first in his current attire, but after glancing at the clock and seeing that the allotted time was only five minutes away, he decided to set off in case he couldn’t _find_ the dining room in time; this place was huge. Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold.

 

-Җ-

 

Castiel didn’t know what he was expecting when Dean arrived, but it certainly wasn’t this. He’d been lounging at the head of the table, which housed at least twenty chairs and spanned the length of it, though only two were set. The candelabras were all lit, despite the light from the early morning sun beginning to filter through the gigantic windows. The servants had thrown open the heavy maroon drapes and had allowed the sunlight to spill forth, revealing a breathtaking view of the property. Castiel paid no mind to it, though, too busy pushing his food around his plate and picking at the fruit, scrambled eggs, and French toast without much enthusiasm to it. He was nervous about Dean. Not that he was scared Dean had disliked his stay or the service, he was just nervous in general. Did Dean sleep well? Was he embarrassed to strip and bathe in front of the servants? Did he like the outfit or was he angry that Castiel had tried to appeal to his tastes? What if he couldn’t get ready in time? What if Castiel had made the deadline a little too slim? What if Dean got lost in the house and couldn’t find his way to the dining room? Perhaps he should’ve told Balthazar to stay….

Castiel was jerked out of his worries when he heard approaching footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. He looked up.

_Holy Mary mother of God_

Castiel’s mouth went as dry as a desert when he saw Dean. No longer was he the poor immigrant, but a regal aristocrat. Clean-shaven, he was dressed in expensive clothing that Castiel had been too small for, and _Lord_ those _breeches._ They hugged the beautiful curve of his ass and the outline of his strong thighs, and his calves were hidden by fucking _chaps_. He looked absolutely elegant. His posture was so erect and trained into him, usually hidden by his ragged jackets, that he might as well be wearing a corset. An image appeared in Castiel’s mind of Dean on top of him, writhing and gasping while wearing nothing but a sleek black corset. He quickly dismissed the thought before Little Castiel decided to pay a visit, and in the equally tight breeches he was wearing, it would be difficult to hide him.

He managed a shaky, “H-Hello, Dean.” His voice was at least three octaves lower than usual, and Dean quirked an eyebrow but didn’t comment, striding, no, swaggering, to his seat and sitting down.

“Hello, Cas,” Dean replied in that thick Italian accent of his. Castiel found in that moment it was very erotic; he sounded like a rich, foreign entrepreneur and the politician was practically drooling, and it wasn’t from the food. “I,” he paused, searching for the word, “suppose we’ll be making a visit to the stables?”

“Indeed,” Castiel replied, wrangling his emotions and locking them away. Dean wasn’t interested. He was straight. He wasn’t a sinful man like Castiel. He was Dean. Dean was hot and Castiel really, _really_ wanted to kiss every single freckle that was sprinkled his nose and cheeks. He soon found that he was staring and that Dean was staring back, having paused in eating. He was using the wrong fork, which was endearing, and crumbs flecked the corners of his mouth. He jolted out of his fantasy world, practically spluttering, “I apologize for staring.”

“No problem. I could see you were daydreaming. I do it all the time.”

 _I was daydreaming of you_ , Castiel sighed inwardly. _Were you daydreaming of me?_

It was a practically silent breakfast, for Dean was too busy devouring the delicious food that he’d never tasted in his life, and Castiel was too busy watching Dean fondly. He’d only known the immigrant for a few days, hell, the man hadn’t even been in America for a week, and yet here he found himself hopelessly smitten. In love.

_In love._

The realization sent a jolt through Castiel’s body, so violent that he actually shifted the table a bit. Dean didn’t look up from his food, too busy chuffing appreciatively as he tasted some of his cook, Charlie Bradbury’s, apple pie. He was in love with Dean Winchester. Actually, truly in love. This was both exciting and completely crushing at the same time. It left a flutter of hope in his heart that kept chanting over and over; _just maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance, there’s a chance._ At the same time, however, he knew in his mind that Dean wasn’t like Castiel, that he liked women and not men, because a man liking a man more than friendship or brotherhood was sinful. Dean may even be like Castiel but had to hide it away within himself; being like Castiel wasn’t safe with organizations like the KKK wreaking havoc and mobs beating homosexuals to death in the streets. Who would ever want that? For the third time during the meal, he was going to have to pry himself away from his fantasy world and distance himself from it, or risk tumbling in once more. He decided to think of Charlie, his ever-faithful cook, to kill all of his emotions.

Charlie Bradbury. How could one describe Charlie Bradbury, the redheaded immigrant from Ireland whom he’d taken in? She was incredible on all levels, and really was talented in the kitchen. She’d been alone, not wanting to tie herself down to a husband, and since women weren’t allowed to have any available factory jobs, Charlie would never be able to pay her rent. So Castiel had hired her as his cook, after tasting one of her incredible pies, and the young woman became one of the smartest people Castiel had ever known. Some men would scorn her because she was a woman who had a college education, and was striving to invent the next big machine, but not Castiel. Castiel was so fond of her that he’d even funded some of her creations, though they usually turned out to be flops. She was working on something very big, though, and the ward boss had a feeling that Charlie Bradbury’s name would be plastered all over America by the time she was done with the world.

Dean was finally finished with his breakfast, and after alerting Balthazar of his departure, Castiel slipped on his coat and marched out of the door, leaving Dean to scramble to catch up. They talked and talked as the blue-eyed politician led them down the winding path towards the stables. The dogs, picking up their scent, had joined them soon after without Castiel’s call, and he didn’t have the heart to scold them for it. Brutus and Achilles, as promised, warmed up incredibly to Dean. They rubbed against his legs and competed for his attention like the oafs they were, and the immigrant was beaming from ear to ear. The Rhodesian ridgebacks soon fell into step two paces in front of the duo, their heads lowered and their ears pricked to listen for threats.

Castiel knew they were about to round the corner where the stables would be in sight, and he quickly covered Dean’s eyes with his hands. The immigrant jumped in surprise but allowed himself to be ushered along blindly, and it struck a chord in Castiel at how much Dean trusted him. They’d only known each other for a few days, three of four, maybe, and even though they’d spent almost every single moment of those days together, it was still a short enough amount of time that it was ridiculous for Castiel to fall in love already. Achilles barked excitedly, hopping a bit and nipping Brutus playfully. The other dog wasn’t really the playful type, trotting along with his head held low as his partner raced around him in circles, and Castiel chuckled softly at their antics. The cobbled path, as well as the trees, gave way to a giant brick patio, accentuated with limestone. The stable door was a giant arch of limestone blocks, barricaded only by an elegant wrought-iron gate with the Novak family crest on it. The sound of sifting hay and the horses’ snuffling and whinnying could be heard from within, and Dean was practically trembling with excitement.

Castiel finally removed his hands and, needless to say, the immigrant’s jaw dropped open as he saw the towering structure. There were one hundred fifty horses in Castiel’s stable, all well-loved and well-kept; many were favored by the servants, who were permitted to take them out and ride them on the bridle paths throughout the property on their breaks or days off. Most estate owners would be appalled at such a notion, but Castiel did it so that none of the horses felt lonely or neglected. Dean stood there, staring, as if his feet were glued to the ground and his face was morphed into a permanent expression of surprise. He’d probably never seen a stable so massive in his life, and Castiel chuckled, grabbing his arm and dragging him towards the entrance whilst dismissing Brutus and Achilles, who bounded back into the woods. A stable boy opened the gates for them, and they swung inward smoothly and without a single ounce of rust protesting on the hinges. The stable boy was ogling at Dean and immediately running off afterwards, no doubt to spread some gossip, and Castiel found that he was fine with it, too happy to see Dean happy, uncaring of anything except for the utter elation on the immigrant’s face.

His eyes immediately went to the nearest horse, and he scrambled over to the edge of the stall, where the Gypsy Vanner was nosing about the bedding and chewing gingerly.

“Oh my God,” Dean whispered, his eyes growing impossibly wider. The piebald horse was very large and had a similar stature as a draft horse, however its fluid grace was what gave it away as a riding horse. It had a long, flowing white mane and tail that nearly brushed the ground, with feathering to match (feathering is a layer of hair that nearly covers the horse’s hooves). Her ears swiveled at the sound of a new voice and she raised her head, ambling over to the edge of the stall and poking her head out, sniffing Dean curiously. The immigrant seemed to be in a permanent state of shock as he stroked the horse’s elegant muzzle, his eyes trained to the Gypsy Vanner’s beautiful blue ones.

“That’s Eve,” Castiel told him, gesturing to the engraved metal plate on the stall door, “My sister Anna rides her when she visits, but I sometimes take her out for a good romp. Very elegant and smooth canter, though she can act like the mother of all monsters when she’s upset.” Dean nodded mutely, still entranced as he ran his fingers down Eve’s snout and rubbed her cheek. The horse seemed to have explored her fill and drew away back to the reaches of her stall to eat some more. Dean seemed to snap out of it then, turning to face Castiel with a huge grin on his face.

“Thanks for bringing me here, Cas,” the immigrant told him sincerely, and it made Castiel’s heart melt with the sentiment. From there, Dean bounced from stall to stall, stopping to pet the horses who were willing to cooperate. Cupid the Danish Sport pony was very friendly, per the norm, while Bela the Arabian only scoffed at Dean’s outstretched hand and turned her rump to them. Dean seemed offended, but his eyes were glowing with happiness.

“Yeah, she’s a bit of a bitch,” Castiel admitted, and the immigrant practically guffawed when Bela turned to eye them accusingly. They talked and enthused about the horses, who varied from Appaloosas to Clydesdales, and the ward boss had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing when Dean couldn’t reach a Shire horse’s nose to pet it. They passed their cabbie and Janice, and Castiel informed that they would be departing for Manhattan no later than twelve, though the cabbie was still ogling the luxury of the stables. He and the immigrant were talking animatedly about their favorite jockeys when Dean stopped dead at the next stall. Castiel took one look at the horse inside and stepped back, letting the immigrant step forward hesitantly. Amara looked up, her black eyes glittering with intelligence and her stomach swollen with pregnancy. Her mane and tail were so long that Castiel had had stable hands braid them, and the mare looked elegant to say the least. Dean approached, shivering noticeably, the memories simmering close to the surface in his eyes as he watched the Friesian stepping towards the door, poking her head out of the opening.

“Impala was bigger,” he whispered, mostly to himself, and his voice was so quiet that Castiel almost missed it. He reached out and stroked Amara’s nose softly, tenderly, and it looked as if they almost had a…bond of some sort, as if Dean was drawn to her. Castiel felt overwhelming pity, pity that he was positive that Dean didn’t want, as the immigrant looked at Amara and saw Impala. They were different, though, and he could see the bitterness in Dean’s expression in knowing that; his horse was long dead, having lived the rest of her life with some stranger. She’d probably forgotten about the little boy who’d ridden on her, who’d laughed and gripped her neck, who groomed her with his father, who’d watched her go with tears in his eyes. The little boy who never forgot her. He stayed there for a while, stroking Amara’s snout absently, and Castiel kept his distance, allowing him to have this moment for himself. When the Friesian realized that no, Dean did not have any food for her,

“Let’s go,” Dean said hoarsely, turning away from the stall, and Castiel didn’t comment on the fact that his eyes were a bit glassy, placing a reassuring hand on his arm and steering him away. Dean chose to ride a rowdy but rough-and-tough Mustang named Samuel Colt, while Castiel opted for Lincoln Continental. They sat in silence while the stable hands saddled and bridled them, using some of the finest and most expensive tack in the industry.

“I hope you don’t mind riding English?” Castiel asked, leveling a worried gaze on Dean, who he knew had grown up riding western. Dean shook his head, having not uttered a word after departing from Amara’s stall. Luckily the horses had been groomed beforehand, and their coats shimmered as the hands led them out of the stable and onto the patio, where two mounting blocks waited. The boys held the reigns while the two men mounted their steeds, and Castiel looked incredibly short on his pudgy Quarter Horse while Dean sat regally on Colt who, by the way, was sixteen hands high, dwarfing both the other horse and its rider.

“I’m sorry if I’m not good. I haven’t ridden in a long while,” Dean admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it. Just try to keep up,” Castiel replied and abruptly spurred Lincoln into a brisk canter, shooting down the bridle path and leaving the immigrant in the dust. He heard Dean spluttering, and pretty soon the pounding of hooves signaled that Colt was hot on Lincoln’s tail. It was unfair that the Mustang had a much longer stride than the Quarter Horse’s, and pretty soon they were racing down the trail side-by-side. Needless to say, Dean’s speculation of being rusty was the biggest miscalculation of the year. He rocked with Colt’s movements, perfectly in time with the one-two-three, one-two-three of the canter. The immigrant’s posture erect in the saddle and his face was completely at ease, his eyes blazing with life and joy. Castiel was so concentrated on Dean that he nearly ran Lincoln into a tree, but he quickly yanked on the reigns and swerved to the left, almost colliding with Colt. He could hear Dean’s laugh as the Quarter Horse grumbled and snorted as he struggled to keep pace with the giant stallion next to him, nearly galloping in the effort.

 They eventually slowed to a walk, and they were both winded from the ride as they laughed. Dean looked like a nobleman on his horse, and Castiel smiled up at him, having to crane his neck ridiculously to meet the green-eyed man’s eyes. He looked beautiful, the sunlight filtering through the foliage wreathing his head like a halo. Their breaths clouded the crisp air, their cheeks and noses bitten by the wind, and Castiel found it so oddly…domestic, which triggered fantasies that he didn’t want to explore in Dean’s company. They let the horses take breaks in between hard gallops and smooth canters, and eventually they reached the small private beach at the northern edge of Castiel’s home, three acres behind the house. They dismounted and tethered their horses to a nearby tree, their backsides saddle sore and their faces practically pink from the cold. Their feet were aching as well, so they removed their chaps and boots at Dean’s suggestion, giving their toes some wiggle room.

They made their way towards the frothing mass that was the Long Island Sound, their waves a sullen gray as the winter progressed, and Dean was grinning from ear to ear. Their fingers were bright red, their faces stinging and the sand cold to the touch, but they were happy. Castiel sat down in the sand, watching the waves crash onto the beach, and Dean sat next to him. Heat radiated from his body, and the politician only wanted to snuggle up next to him for warmth, maybe bury his face into the crook of his neck, but he refrained from it.

“I love the beach,” Dean told him, his eyes never leaving the water, and Castiel’s heart melted at the twinkle in his eyes that he’d only ever seen the immigrant have. It was that twinkle of complete joy, of bliss, and he’d never once seen it on someone else, except maybe Anna and small children. The rest of the world was haggard and sullen, obsessing over money or family or luxury or maybe all three, but in this moment Dean Winchester was carefree. Castiel only realized what he was doing before it was too late.

His lips met Dean’s and the immigrant when as stiff as a board, but Castiel knew the deed was done and he might as well not be a coward about it, pressing forward a little. The kiss was everything he’d ever imagined. Dean’s lips were chapped and soft and slightly chilled, and Castiel relished the feeling, though his face wasn’t just red from the cold. And suddenly, out of the blue, Dean began to kiss back. It was Castiel’s turn to lock up, and Dean gave an appreciative rumble as his callused hand reached around to take a hold of the hairs on the back of Castiel’s head, keeping him from pulling away. The complete and total ecstasy was all-consuming. He was kissing Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester was kissing him back, and he ignored the small voice that nagged and told him the immigrant was just doing it because he owed Castiel so much. When they finally pulled away, they were both beet red and panting, wild-eyed and grinning goofily.

“That was…”

“ _Perfect_ ,” Dean whispered, touching his lips absently. He looked up and smiled at Castiel, a smile that was brighter than the sun and shinier than all the stars in the sky combined. “Now, thinking about it, on the first day you said…”

“That I might be falling in love with you,” Castiel finished, remembering that moment as clear as day. “Well now you know.” He spread his arms in defeat, allowing them to fall into his lap as Dean chuckled.

“That’s kinda creepy, Cas, admitting your love to people who don’t understand your language. I was lucky I didn’t repeat it to Sam!” The two of them burst into laughter, talking animatedly for another half-hour or so. The ward boss found Dean opening up about his past more, and he listened intently as he enthused eagerly about Impala and Friesians in general, as well as pie. Dean apparently _really_ loved pie.

“Let’s get back or we’ll be missed,” Castiel told him. “You have to get back to Sam.” Dean pouted at this but allowed the ward boss to lead him back to the horses, who seemed to be either oblivious or uncaring of the fact that Dean and Castiel had just kissed. Had just actually _kissed._ The blue-eyed man still couldn’t believe it.

Yes, it’d been a pretty damn good day.

           


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for angst like wow   
> Sorry because I'm not that experienced in writing angst  
> Please comment so I can get better

Dean’s hands were trembling as he held his paycheck in hand, the edges crumpling where he was gripping it like a vice.

“T-this isn’t my right salary,” the immigrant stammered, his voice nearly a whisper as he turned to Alastair, who’d been the one dispensing the week’s pay to all of his workers. “It’s two dollars short.” The man arched an eyebrow at him, a smirk playing over his features, revealing teeth that were neatly aligned and way too bright.

“And what makes you say that?” the aristocrat asked him, running a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. His eyes sparkled with mischief and a bit of malice as he regarded Dean, who felt a bit embarrassed as he compared Alastair’s tailored frock coat to his ragged and disgusting work clothes.

“I’m supposed to get nine dollars and six cents a week,” Dean stated evenly, his brows knitting together. As far as he knew, this wasn’t even the slightest bit legal. “That’s twelve cents an hour. You’re cheating me off two cents an hour.”

“Does it really matter? It’s only, what, twenty four cents a day?” he prompted, examining his finely manicured nails. Dean wanted to strangle him, and he was exerting an incredible amount of control, even without his brother around to steady him; Sam had started working part-time in a local bookstore and had to hustle out as soon as work was over. Most likely, he hadn’t noticed the two dollars missing until he was stepping through the doors of the shop.

“Sir, I need that money,” Dean told him, his voice taking on a pleading note that Alastair seemed to be drinking up with sick amusement.

“No, you don’t,” he replied, “Because I’m _telling you_ that you don’t.”

“Please, sir,” Dean begged, his voice becoming brittle as panic sliced through his skull. “We need to pay rent, we need food and new clothes and water and-” Alastair raised a hand, efficiently silencing the immigrant, who’d begun to ramble. He leaned in so close that their noses were almost touching, and only then did Dean realize that they’d attracted an audience. Alastair smelled of expensive perfume and lilac shampoo, the scents making the Italian sick to his stomach with both horror and dread of what had happened and what was to come.

“You’re not getting a single _cent_ from me, do you understand?” he growled, his voice a warning that sent the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck standing on end.

“But-”

“ _Do you understand_?”

There was a long pause, and a list of counterarguments popped into Dean’s mind, the biggest thing being the fact that, with the trench-deep pockets that the factory owner had, he would almost certainly have two dollars to spare. He let the words stay stranded at the tip of his tongue, though, not wanting to risk losing the only job he had.

“Yes, sir,” Dean rasped, averting his gaze to his scuffed and worn shoes.

“Good,” Alastair replied, and there hadn’t even been a remote attempt to conceal the smugness in the aristocrat’s voice. Dean stormed out, not wanting to see the pitying looks on his coworker’s faces. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, and his rage simmered under the surface. He barged through the cobbled streets, narrowly missing being trampled by horse-drawn carts and shoving through crowds of people, who cursed at him in a colorful array of languages. He didn’t care, though, and continued down the street, not even batting an eyelid at the beautiful Palomino for sale or marveling at his beautiful city. He felt the cracks spreading through him and clenched his jaw, trying to remain strong. He had to do it for Sammy, for their new life in the United States. Somehow, though, this was almost as bad as Italy. Here, the scum of the earth didn’t beg for food and booze on the streets like in Naples, they sat in their palaces and ate lobster and had nice clothes and a full stomach when they went to sleep.

God apparently was testing him, because he managed to cross Ellen’s path while trying to keep a straight trajectory for his tenement. He remembered how she bought food every Tuesday, and that he’d occasionally bump into her on the way back home, but now was not the day that he wanted to deal with her matronly attitude.

“Dean, are you okay?” she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder as her eyes sparkled with genuine concern. He appreciated her efforts to try and get through to him and talk it out, he really did, but he was too busy wallowing in his own failure to really be in the mood for such compassion. It must’ve shown on his face, because the hardy woman’s expression softened and her eyes shined with sympathy, but as she opened her mouth he wrenched himself from her grip, much to her astonishment, and barged off. He hated leaving her in the dust, hated turning his back on her when she’d done nothing but attempt to comfort him, but when he glanced at the paycheck, which was crumpling in the tight grip of his fist, the wave of fury and self-hatred that crashed into him drowned out any guilt except the one that he possessed for letting Sam down. He was the big brother, the caretaker, and he was supposed to get this kind of shit right, keep the family together. Now they just might get thrown out of their homes, and they’d be back to square one, only in a new, unfamiliar place that seemed to look down upon them. At least in Naples they’d known the place, known the people that lived there, but now they were in an alien world that Dean knew was just as cruel as it was full of opportunity.

He scaled the steps to sixty-six East 12th Street and flung the door open so hard that he was just short of ripping the old, cheap thing from its hinges. He made it into the lobby before his resolve crumbled and the bitterness that had been fueling him and keeping him going dissipated into nothing, leaving him without a crutch for his mind to lean on. He collapsed against the wall and tucked his knees against his chest, finally allowing a small, strangled sob to escape his lips. After that he knew he was done for, because the dam that was holding back his emotions fractured and caved, allowing them to surge forth in a torrent of bitterness, misery, guilt, and anxiety. Tears began to stream town his cheeks, his shoulders shaking as he wept. He hadn’t broken down like this since their father died. He always had to stay positive. Stay one step ahead and never lag behind, lest his demons drag him away to the world they dragged his father, where nothing matters but the bottle and what was inside of it. He needed to remain the rock, for Sam, but no matter how severely his mind scolded himself for being weak at a time like this, he couldn’t manage to reign his emotions back in.

“Hey, Dean-o, what’s shaki- Oh my God, what happened?” Gabriel’s voice made Dean’s cheeks burn with humiliation. Nobody was supposed to see him like this. He was Dean fucking Winchester and Winchesters didn’t break down like this, because they would wither and lapse and wilt like how John had, and Dean was doing everything in his power not to end up like his father did. It seemed so easy, though, just to accept the constant pressure and shatter into a million pieces from the weight of all the burdens he’d shouldered. Nobody, except for maybe Sam, would miss him, because everyone he’d ever known was in Naples, but he couldn’t afford to think like that. He couldn’t afford anything.

Dean couldn’t find it in him to reply, so he held up the rumpled paycheck for Gabriel to see, knowing that the tenement owner was well aware of his salary. He heard the sharp intake of breath and peeked through his fingers to see Gabriel staring at it, his brows pinched together and his hand methodically running through his hair.

“This is ten kinds of illegal, Dean,” he said finally, his golden eyes smoldering with anger that was undoubtedly directed at Alistair. “That pig-headed, fat-assed, money-stealing piece of shit will be having a word or two with Cassie. Once I tell him of this he’s going to flip a wig-”

“No!” Dean found himself blurting, so suddenly that he was almost as surprised as Gabriel looked. Softer, he repeated, “No.”

“What do you mean no?” Gabriel prompted, putting his hands on his hips. “This,” he waved the paycheck in Dean’s face, and he couldn’t bear to see Alastair’s neat print that stated that the immigrant had earned only seven dollars and six cents for his seventy-two hours of labor, “Is a violation of your rights, Dean. Cas can have that guy thrown behind bars for doing this.”

“I can deal with this myself!” Dean insisted. “I’m not some poor damsel in distress that has to run to him whenever I have a problem! I’m not some leech that saps his expenses for my own gain!” Gabriel let out an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands into the air.

“Dean, don’t you get it?! He _likes_ giving things to you. He likes helping people even more! Why do you think he became a ward boss? For the money? Let him help you, Dean. Stop lamenting over what you don’t have and concentrate on fighting for what’s you _do_ have! And don’t think he didn’t let it slip that you two bozos kissed.”

“He told you?!” Dean hissed, feeling betrayed. That was something private, something to be kept in between the two of them, and he gazed around warily as if there would be eavesdroppers listening in. Both Castiel and Dean’s images would be ruined if word of that kiss managed to slip; homosexuality was not looked upon with fondness, whether it be by the Church or by the people, and Dean was well aware of all the lovers who were found dead in back alleys for their orientation, on top of the fact that authority looked the other way when it came to the horrors that this handful of people were threatened by.

“Don’t get your inexpressibles in a twist, I’ve known about Cassie’s attraction for the same gender since he was ten years old. I’ve come to terms with it, though most of our family hasn’t,” Gabriel paused, the subject of family obviously being a touchy one, “They don’t know, though, and I have my lips sealed. He was pretty worried that you’d be angry for letting it slip, but unless you’re a Grade-A bootlicker you won’t have a problem, am I correct?” Gabriel fixed Dean with a stare that clearly stated that if the immigrant did have a problem with it, he’d be running into a few things that were much more severe than a secret kiss or a paycheck. Dean swallowed hard and nodded, trying to wipe away the mortifying dampness on his cheeks.

“Still,” he whispered, “Please don’t tell him. I don’t want him to go against Alastair; from what I’ve learned, Cas isn’t so popular without the immigrants’ votes in exchange for him giving them a place in society, and Alistair is rolling in money. The next Andrew Carnegie, maybe. Castiel won’t stand a chance, and his reputation will become all the more diminished. I don’t want to put his job in line for the sake of my nine dollars and six cents a week. He deserves so much better.” Gabriel’s expression softened in understanding, and he handed Dean his paycheck back, the paper now looking as if it’d seen better days.

“Okay. If this keeps up, just tell me and I’ll delay the rent. Can’t lower it, though, I’m sorry. I have a boss, too, and he’s all for the profits,” the tenement owner told him, and a slight gleam of hope began to flutter in his chest. “But I really don’t want to throw you guys out. You two have been through so much already, coming here to the Land of the Free for a better life, and if I turned you to the streets it would be like going back to the place you were trying to get away from, not to mention your brother is hot.” Dean looked at Gabriel sharply, who just shrugged with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I swing both ways.”

Dean chuckled and pulled at the fabric of his trousers a bit. He was meeting Castiel for the last time tonight, and the ward boss always lifted his spirits. The sessions had long since traveled out of the land of strict studying and into the world of just hanging out. They hadn’t kissed again, both of them clearly hesitant to do so in a room where just anyone could walk in, so they kept to soft touches and fleeting glances that were almost as infuriating as the occasional glance. Cas was going to start campaigning for the small but upcoming election, so he would be unavailable for the rest of this week and all of next week, but he promised that they’d go back to his manor soon enough. Just the thought of that place, of Brutus and Achilles, of the nice beds and food, and of the horses, made Dean’s insides flutter with excitement and anticipation, especially when Castiel had told him that Sam could come along next time. Maybe this would all get better.

 

\----Җ----

 

Castiel knew something was wrong the moment Dean shuffled inside his wing at Tammany Hall. From the beaten and shattered look in his normally joy-filled green eyes to the way he hunched when he walked, which was so unlike the drilled-in poise of the Winchester brothers, there was certainly something that was on Dean’s mind. The immigrant did his normal routine, hanging up his coat, which was too thin for this December chill in Castiel’s opinion, and making himself comfortable on the bar, which they’d found was easier to study on and talk.

Castiel tried to catch his eye, but Dean seemed determined to stare at the floor, his face indifferent but his eyes giving away all of his secrets. Normally, the Italian would be willing to open up to Castiel about his concerns and his woes, constantly telling him of the stresses of his factory job and of the upcoming rent that was due, but this time he was closed off, as if he’d erected walls around himself to keep Castiel out of his thoughts. It’d been a month and a half since they’d ventured to Castiel’s estate, but neither the politician nor the immigrant could find the time to go back again. Dean was very independent when it came to his rent, and refused to allow Castiel to help him, saying that neither he nor Sam wished to be babied. The politician couldn’t offer him any other jobs without looking like he was playing favorites with his clients (something that his opponents would pounce on if they found out), and Dean was determined to pay rent by its deadline. He and Sam were doing well so far, but the goal was still slightly out of reach, and Castiel felt helpless when Dean told him of his struggles, though with good humor.

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Castiel asked, raising a brow. Dean grunted in affirmation, his head bowed as the candlelight washed over his face and illuminated it with dancing shadows. Realizing he wasn’t going to get much more of a reply, Castiel launched into an animated, though one-sided, conversation about his upcoming campaign. He told Dean that the immigrant had been a great influence to his speech writing and had helped him consider all the problems of the people that needed to be addressed. Perhaps he’d become more popular because of Dean, and the immigrant let out a bitter laugh as Castiel praised him.

“I’m good for nothing, Cas,” he stated, and the politician felt his blood run cold as Dean got up and poured himself a drink. Dean didn’t drink, not after the issue with Sam and his father’s alcoholism, one of the cases having ended in death. Even though it was a very expensive bourbon that Dean was taking, Castiel wasn’t concerned about that. He was concerned about Dean’s well-being; from what he could glean from the little bits and pieces of Dean’s past that he’s learned, Winchesters had a tendency to turn to the bottle when things got tough. If the immigrant’s comment about being good for nothing was anything to go by, things were getting tough.

“Dean,” he said firmly, and only then did the Italian look up at him, half of his face distorted by his glass as he downed another sip of the amber-colored whiskey. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Listen, Cas,” Dean sighed, his eyes growing a bit unfocused. Castiel only realized later how low of an alcohol tolerance the Winchesters must have from their years of not touching a single drop. “I know you’re trying to be helpful and all, but you have to mind your own goddamn business.” Castiel was taken aback by this, and his astonishment almost immediately turned into annoyance that simmered low under the surface.

“You come in here and begin ignoring me and drinking my bourbon, when you haven’t had alcohol in years, and you expect me to _mind my own business_?” he snarled, his expression growing hard. “That’s what friends, lovers, whatever we are, are for. You can’t keep this from me, Dean.” The immigrant licked his lips, his jaw clenching as he leaned in close, so close that their noses were almost touching.

“Watch me,” he hissed. “This isn’t your problem, Cas, stay out of it. Sam and I don’t have to be pampered and showered with gifts of money and shit just because you have the hots for me.” That struck a nerve, and Castiel stood up so fast that the stool tipped over, slamming into the ground with a loud thud that made Dean flinch, though the immigrant wasn’t fazed.

“Don’t you _dare_ insult my feelings that I have for you, Dean. I decided to share that piece of myself with you and you just threw it back into my face like some ungrateful, whiny bitch. You can’t do this, Dean. I’m a nice person and I want to help you in whatever way I can, because I’m your _friend_. Did you know that I’ve never made contact with any of my other clients as much as I’ve done with you? They’ve stopped in every once or twice, but never have I tutored someone such as yourself in English. That has to mean something!”

“No, it doesn’t. You don’t know the first thing about me, Cas,” Dean’s voice was less snarky and irritating and more tired than his last retort.

“Only because you’ve never shared,” Castiel replied, his voice much more measured and calm than before. “It’s your own damn fault that you think I don’t know you, but I do.”

“That’s not likely,” Dean snorted and took another swig from his glass, which Castiel wanted to hit out of his hand and watch shatter onto the floor. He liked these glasses, though, and merely settled for digging his nails into the meat of his palms.

“Oh, but it is. Your birthday is January twenty-fourth. You’re an Aquarius. You like learning and are very smart and witty and sarcastic. You’re from Naples, Italy and had a black Frisian named Impala. Your mother died when you were four and your father took to the bottle soon after, leaving you to care for your younger brother, Samuel Winchester, and you two are closer than any brothers could possibly be. You need and depend on each other.” Dean was stone-faced, showing absolutely no emotion whatsoever as Castiel continued, “Sam had a drinking problem, which was influenced by a woman named Ruby, and times became so tough that you managed to gamble enough to get tickets to America. You enthuse about horses and your favorite food is pie, and you like to listen to the people playing instruments on the streets. I could say more, but you get my point.”

Dean put down his glass and rose, and a smile broke out on Castiel’s face as he extended his hand to touch the immigrant’s shoulder. But instead of coming towards Castiel to embrace him and tell him of his troubles, Dean shied out of Castiel’s reach and trudged over to the coat rack.

“Dean?” the ward boss asked, his brows furrowing in bewilderment. Judging by the hands on his grandfather clock, it was only eight forty-five at night. Dean slipped on his jacket and buttoned it up, his face a mask and his lips pursed.

“Good job, you know the basics of the wild and elusive Dean Winchester. Gold star for you,” Dean growled, and he held up his hand for silence when Castiel tried to ask him what the matter was. “I’m not coming anymore. I don’t need your help, Cas. Maybe I’ll come back when things get better but…not now. I can’t.” And with that, he was gone, leaving Castiel standing shocked and alone with Dean’s empty cup.

The ward boss threw it against the wall in his frustration, though the sound of the glass shattering didn’t help like he’d thought it would.

 

\----Җ----

 

Things didn’t get better.

“Four whole dollars, Sam,” Dean cried, burying his face into his hands as his brother rubbed soothing circles into his back. “Four whole dollars are gone. _Gone_.”

“Don’t worry, he’s not messing with my pay just yet. We can do this,” Sam assured him, but his voice was tight, as if he was trying to convince himself of that fact. Dean didn’t waste any time in getting another job to help pay the rent, and he worked and worked and worked and worked. He worked from the time his shift in Alastair’s factory started at eight o’ clock in the morning to the end of his shift of assisting the butcher at his shop, which was at four o’ clock. It was still not enough. Dean sobbed as he counted their money and Sam was always the rock to lean on, and they were struggling to make ends meet. Gabriel always let his offer of informing Castiel stand, but Dean always adamantly turned him down, at least after Sam told him that he was willing to go down this path as well. He knew that Gabriel was aware of the fact that he’d temporarily severed things with Cas and had left him alone in a fit of upset, but if it bothered the tenement owner, he never mentioned it.

The exhaustion was starting to get to Dean. He had told one of the workers who operated close to him to please wake him up if he began to nod off, and the shadows under his bloodshot eyes were dark. He would’ve used booze to drown out his worries and keep himself awake, but every penny went to paying the rent, whose sum was like a high mountain whose summit could never be reached. The months dragged on, and Dean was pretty sure that Gabriel had let his mouth wag to Castiel, who never stopped sending him telegrams asking if he was alright and if he needed help. He burned all of them and refused to see the politician when he arrived at the tenements. Gabriel was scrambling to help in any way that he could, and even some of their neighbors were trying to chip in, but it never was enough. Dean was now being paid two dollars a week from Alastair and fifty cents a week from the butcher's, and Sam’s paycheck had begun to wane until he was making three dollars from Alistair, twenty five cents a week from the bookstore, and ten cents a week from his new job helping a merchant. Both worked Sundays. There was no time for rest.

It came to the point where they had to ration. One slice of bread had to last you two days, a cup of clean water had to last you a week. More often than not Dean came home with tears in his eyes and handed Sam a second slice of bread, saying that the baker had taken pity and given them two extra. Dean would always claim to have the bread in his pocket or to have eaten it along the way. The younger Winchester would weep with joy and throw his arms around him, unware of the fact that his brother was becoming ever so thinner. Sam wasn’t stupid, though, and he began to see it. Dean’s cheekbones began to jut from his face, his eyes sinking deep into his skull. His skin became sallow and covered in nicks and scars from the grueling labor he performed on four hours of sleep every night. And when they did sleep, Sam heard the rattling in his brother’s breathing, the way his coughs were violent and hacking.

Yet he always brought home extra bread, the bread that Sam was well aware wasn’t extra at all.

“Sammy, you have to eat. Stay strong,” Dean rasped when the taller Winchester refused to take the second slice of bread.

“What about you, Dean?” he’d shouted. “What happens to you?” Dean had stayed silent. They knew that one day shit would hit the fan, as it had done over and over and over again for these past months, and it occurred on the first day of April, which just so happened be a holy day. While everyone was preparing to go to church, Sam woke at seven forty five to get to the factory, and he was one of many who had to work Sundays for that little extra pay. Anything that they could scrounge. He was getting dressed in his work clothes when he saw it. Dean was struggling to get out of bed, his sides heaving with the strain of trying to sit upright as his hands scrabbled at the covers. When he finally managed to haul himself up, after a very worrying amount of effort, he staggered, his eyes unfocused as he groped for his work clothes. Sam couldn’t take this anymore, couldn’t watch his brother withering and wilting, wasting away like a flower in December. It was like his father all over again, only this time there was no booze. There was nothing, and Dean was just trying to help in that Dean way of his; sacrificing himself for the sake of others.

“Dean, stop,” he said softly as his older brother’s unsteady, thin fingers fumbled with the buttons of his butcher uniform that he fell asleep in every night.

“Can’t, Sam,” Dean’s voice was so hoarse that it was barely there. “Gotta get to work. Gotta feed us.”

“You mean feed me,” Sam snarled. Dean looked up, and his eyes just looked so tired. So broken.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice so full of tenderness that the younger Winchester felt the burning behind his eyes that signaled oncoming tears. “You’re my little brother. I gotta take care of my pain in the ass little brother.”

“Dean, we’re taking a day off,” Sam told him firmly, and Dean let out a bitter laugh.

“If this is some sort of April Fool’s joke, Sammy, s’not funny.”

“It’s not a joke, get back in bed and take off your shirt.” The elder Winchester’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline when he realized just how serious Sam was, and he shook his head vigorously.

“No, we have until exactly twelve o’ clock until our rent is a day late and we have to pay extra, and right now we’re five dollars short. _Five dollars_.” The pain in his brother’s voice was evident. Mostly to himself, he grunted, “Maybe I should turn a few tricks to get to the deadline.” That was the final straw, the mere suggestion that Dean was going to sell his body off to some bull-headed freak had Sam grabbing his brother roughly, ignoring the wince that it dragged from the elder Winchester, and sat him down on the bed, tearing his shirt off in the process. The sight before him made him want to sob. Dean’s baggy clothing had hidden the terror that lay underneath, and Sam inhaled sharply at how he could count every one of his brother’s ribs. His arms were sticks. His hands thin and gnarled.

He looked like a corpse.

“I’m going to get Rowena, she used to be a nurse back in Scotland, and if you’re not sitting on that bed when I get back, I’m leaving you alone for the rest of your life,” Sam told his brother sternly, trying to ignore the way Dean flinched with every word.

“O-okay,” was the faint reply, and Sam stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The only thing was that he wasn’t going to get just Rowena. He descended the stairs and nearly collided with Gabriel, who hadn’t been himself lately; far too stressed and serious to be the happy-go-lucky guy who was their landlord. He grabbed the shorter man’s shoulders, his fingers tingling with the contact, and looked him straight in the eye.

“Send a telegram to Cas. Hell, deliver the message yourself if you have to. Dean’s sick. I need him to come here with a doctor. We have a retired nurse here and even though I’m not sure if he actually had contracted any illnesses I just want to be safe. I’ll pay for everything, I swe-” Gabriel silenced him with a very serious and concerned look.

“I’ve got it covered, Samantha, don’t you worry.” And with those words he grabbed his coat and whisked out of the door faster than the immigrant could A) reply and B) scold him for calling him Samantha. He dashed back up the stairs and roused practically all of their neighbors, from Crowley and Rowena to Lisa and Ben, though he didn’t allow the latter two to come, in case Dean had actually contracted an illness. He knew that they were just as vulnerable as Dean was in his current state, and they had sent him along with their best wishes for Sam’s brother.

“What do you think he has?” Ellen asked, her expression pinched with worry. Sam worried his bottom lip in between his teeth.

“I don’t know, but you’ll see why I’m worried.”

Needless to say, he didn’t have to explain much once he’d brought them into the room to see Dean lying on his side, asleep and breathing that rattling breath of his.

He looked dead.

\----Җ----

           

The doctor that Castiel had managed to get in contact with wasn’t one of his trusted favorites, but they lived way out on the island and therefore he had to settle with this one. Rev. Roy Le Grange was a part-time doctor and a part-time faith healer, balancing out his duties in his parish with the duties of being a medic, and he claimed to be capable of curing even the most serious of diseases. From what Castiel has heard, he was the real deal. He was blind and wore tinted spectacles to hide his unseeing eyes from the world, but he seemed to sense things that no one else could. His suit was neat and tidied, his top hat without a single speck of dust upon it, and Castiel felt severely underdressed. Considering that he, too, was in a suit, that was a big statement. Le Grange’s hairline was receding and he was on the pudgy side, but he was as healthy as healthy could be.

Their carriage thundered along, for he’d urged the cabbie to go as fast as possible without getting them killed, and the ride was one thousand times more hazardous and painful than usual. Castiel thumped and smacked into the sides like some sort of rag doll when they hit the bumps and the dips in the cobbled road, occasionally knocking heads with Rev. Le Grange. Anxiety was consuming him as he recalled Gabriel’s barging into his office, panting from exertion, and telling him to get a doctor and go to Dean’s tenement. He thought of all the horrible diseases that Dean could’ve attracted. Influenza was becoming increasingly more common in the city, and there have been a couple of outbreaks of typhus noted in the area. God forbid it was cholera, which was becoming quite the epidemic and could kill within minutes, especially in the slums where Dean lived.

“So is this Dean a friend of yours?” the reverend asked, twiddling his thumbs and calmly taking the jarring and the bouncing of the carriage.

“Something like that,” Castiel sighed, but he didn’t want to go into depth considering that the Church frowned upon thing such as a man kissing another man. “I fear for his health despite the fact that we haven’t talked in a few months.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s been struggling to pay rent, completely refusing my offers to assist him and his brother. Gabriel, that’s my brother, has told me that he’s more than once overheard them arguing over whether they should accept my help, with Dean being firmly against it.”

“Why would he refuse help?” Le Grange asked, his voice not sounding in any way incredulous or judgmental, but rather curious. He didn’t blame Dean for the situation that he was in when he could’ve easily avoided it all by letting the ward boss intervene and assist, and was merely inquisitive about the reasoning behind his decisions.

“He is very poor, and he hates being helpless more than anything else, I believe. He’s grown up raising his brother, and in that time he had to remain strong, couldn’t afford to be helpless, and now that he has a safety net I assume that he simply doesn’t want to use it and have to rely on someone else to aid him,” Castiel replied, wincing as the carriage halted suddenly, sending him zipping forwards and into the wall, and then started up again, causing the ward boss to slam back into his seat.

“Interesting,” was all the reverend replied. It felt like hours until they pulled up in front of Dean’s tenement, and Castiel wanted to leap out and break down the door, except he had to lead Le Grange out of the carriage, which sped off, and up the steps before he could do much else. Gabriel answered the door before Castiel even knocked, and hustled the two of them through the hall and the lobby, up the stairs and towards room twenty-five. Sam was waiting for them, pacing about worriedly, and after hurried introductions they led the reverend inside.

“We had Rowena, a retired nurse, help him out, but we waited for you before we did anything,” Sam explained, and Le Grange nodded, groping around for the bed, which he placed his suitcase upon. Dean was lying on the bed, his eyes opened a fracture, but he seemed too weak to do much else, and Castiel could see why. It was so bad that he had to turn away, his hand covering his mouth as he took deep breaths through his nose to calm himself. Had Dean not been a close friend, he wouldn’t’ve noticed the man that was lying down before him. This one’s ribs showed through his skin, and he was too thin for his height. Maybe with his bulky clothes on he could be considered “lanky”, but not without. No, Dean was emaciated, and Castiel couldn’t bear to see him in such a state. He wanted to pounce on him and kiss all of the sadness and the stress and the thinness away, wanted to sweep him off his feet and take him home and pamper him until he was spoiled rotten. Then he thought of something, and as he finally turned around to see Le Grange with his stethoscope checking Dean’s heart and having Rowena assist him with checking anything that actually needed to be seen, such as his ears and his eyes, he knew exactly what he was going to do next.         

           


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a long time; I was on vacation and had a bit of writer's block. Note that I just whipped up this chapter from the top of my head and may have missed a lot of mistakes.

Dean felt like he was walking on air, drifting on the breeze like a balloon. He had no destination in mind, just an overwhelming and all-encompassing sense of calm that washed over him like a river. He blinked blearily, mutedly aware of the panicked and rather loud voices that were blaring in his ears, but the light in his eyes was blinding and he couldn’t keep them open for long. His thoughts were moving slowly, sluggishly, but he didn’t really mind much. He was really hungry, his stomach feeling shriveled and hollow, and he reminded himself to ask Madre to make him one of her incredible sandwiches later, though something about that mental note seemed a little…off. He didn’t really care. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness, and for a moment his brain was aware of the fact that he was delirious from the hunger, but the thought slipped through his fingers like sand.

He felt arms hefting him up and his brow crinkled, but the wrinkles smoothed out almost as fast as they’d come. He was just a teensy bit famished. Had he fallen asleep on Impala’s back again? Maybe this was Padre carrying him back to the dinner table for supper. That would make sense, but he wasn’t really convinced that that was the case. He sunk deeper into the darkness, which welcomed him with open arms and enveloped his mind in a blanket of blackness that was very soothing. He heard the people talking, their voices strained and anxious, and he wondered what was wrong. Then again, how could anything be wrong? Dean could barely grasp a thought before it was lost to that slow-moving river of tranquility weaving its way through his head, but the immigrant was pretty sure he needed to open his eyes. Something was happening that he needed to bear witness to. Perhaps he was missing supper? That wouldn’t be good, because he was _really_ hungry.

“ _Io non voglio perdere la cena_ ,” he mumbled, his voice a hoarse whisper that was barely there, much less audible, but somehow there was a reply.

Dean felt like he was walking on air, drifting on the breeze like a balloon. He had no destination in mind, just an overwhelming and all-encompassing sense of calm that washed over him like a river. He blinked blearily, mutedly aware of the panicked and rather loud voices that were blaring in his ears, but the light in his eyes was blinding and he couldn’t keep them open for long. His thoughts were moving slowly, sluggishly, but he didn’t really mind much. He was really hungry, his stomach feeling shriveled and hollow, and he reminded himself to ask Madre to make him one of her incredible sandwiches later, though something about that mental note seemed a little…off. He didn’t really care. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness, and for a moment his brain was aware of the fact that he was delirious from the hunger, but the thought slipped through his fingers like sand.

He felt arms hefting him up and his brow crinkled, but the wrinkles smoothed out almost as fast as they’d come. He was just a teensy bit famished. Had he fallen asleep on Impala’s back again? Maybe this was Padre carrying him back to the dinner table for supper. That would make sense, but he wasn’t really convinced that that was the case. He sunk deeper into the darkness, which welcomed him with open arms and enveloped his mind in a blanket of blackness that was very soothing. He heard the people talking, their voices strained and anxious, and he wondered what was wrong. Then again, how could anything be wrong? Dean could barely grasp a thought before it was lost to that slow-moving river of tranquility weaving its way through his head, but the immigrant was pretty sure he needed to open his eyes. Something was happening that he needed to bear witness to. Perhaps he was missing supper? That wouldn’t be good, because he was _really_ hungry.

“ _Io non voglio perdere la cena_ ,” he mumbled, his voice a hoarse whisper that was barely there, much less audible, but somehow there was a reply.

“ _Silenzio, mio fratello_ ,” a voice replied, and he felt himself calm down a bit. He wasn't going to miss dinner, or else the voice, which was awfully familiar, would’ve told him so. He was pretty sure he should know that voice. That voice was someone very, very close to him, and apparently its owner was supporting his upper body, judging by the direction it’d come from. He couldn’t place a name to it, however, so he let it go off on its way with the rest of his coherent thoughts. He managed to open his eyes a sliver, the lights still too bright, and came face to face with an angel.

He was haloed by the blazing light in the background, but he wasn't looking at Dean, which for some reason made the green-eyed man very disappointed. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and in his arms were the immigrant’s legs as they descended stairs. These stairs were definitely not a part of the small staircase in his home in Naples, which Dean found odd, and the angel was worrying his upper lip in between his teeth. Dean was pretty sure he saw drops of blood leaking from the gouges they left in the soft, tender flesh, and he wanted to tell the angel to stop hurting himself, though his vocal cords wouldn’t work. He focused instead on the very impressive suit that he wore, and the weird, ugly overcoat that billowed around him like robes. Dean didn’t see any wings, but that was okay with him. Perhaps when the angel was done doing whatever he was doing with Dean’s legs, he could take him back to Naples. Madre and Padre were probably worried sick at his absence.

When the depths of the darkness ahead beckoned to Dean, the immigrant eagerly followed.

 

\----Җ----

 

“He’s stable,” Roy Le Grange told him as he shouldered on his jacket, his voice holding confidence that soothed Castiel to no end. Sam was off to the side, taking everything in that the ward boss’ estate had to offer, but he was still wringing his hands and tapping his knee in his anxiety. Castiel wished that Dean’s brother could’ve visited on better terms, and certainly not in a situation such as this, but perhaps Fate had decreed it to be this way, even though Castiel wanted to punch Fate in the nose for bringing down such suffering upon the family of two that he cared for so dearly. The politician, Le Grange, Gabriel, and Sam were all standing outside the guest room that Dean had slept in during his overnight visit, the rest of the people who’d assisted them having stayed behind at the tenements, and tension hung so thick in the air that you could cut it with a knife.

“Thank God,” Castiel breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a breath that he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding in, and he gave Gabriel a reassuring nod over the doctor’s shoulder. The tenement owner had immediately relayed the news to Sam, who sighed raggedly and buried his face in his hands, his sides heaving with breaths, and Gabriel’s attempts to soothe the worn-out immigrant just managed to prevail as Sam calmed down considerably. Castiel tried to pay attention to everything in order to stave off his worrisome thoughts as he escorted Le Grange down the grand staircase and out the front door, where a carriage was waiting for him. “Your help has been essential. Thank you,” the ward boss told the blind doctor as he placed a wad of bills into his outstretched palm. It was more than he’d asked for, but Castiel needed to let him know just how much the assistance at such short notice had meant for him.

Brutus and Achilles had been standing vigilant at the entrance of the estate, having noted the fact that their comrade was ill and needed protection, and Castiel reached down to rub their ears as the cabbie whipped up his horse and Le Grange, after tipping his hat in Castiel’s general direction, disappeared down the cobbled path. The ward boss waited for a few moments, letting the slightly chilled April air nip at his skin and bring him back down to earth. The initial shock of seeing Dean lying in the bed, more like a cadaver than a living human being, his breathing shallow and his eyes closed, had been gutting him throughout the night. Now that he knew Dean would recover, a balm had been smoothed over the festering wound, but that image was still plastered to the backs of his eyelids.

The dogs, sensing their master’s anxiety, began to lick Castiel’s hands as a form of reassurance, and the ward boss gave them one last pat before retreating inside. It was a bit warmer, but not considerably, and Castiel rolled down the sleeves of his white button down as gooseflesh speckled his skin. He heard the servants whispering as they passed, and plenty of rumors flew this way and that, but Castiel didn’t have the physical or mental strength to reprimand them.

“Bloody hell, you two! Stop running your mouths about Master Castiel’s life and get back to work! His business is none of yours, thank you very much!” came an enraged bellow from the hall branching off to the ward boss’ right. The two servants, both who were quite young, scuttled off smartly as the butler burst into the main corridor, looking ruffled.

Balthazar, apparently, _did_ have the strength to reprimand them.

“Thanks, Bal,” Castiel told his employee, but it came out more like a sigh than a strong, hardy token of appreciation. Balthazar, having known Castiel since his childhood, understood the man quite well, and was almost like yet another annoying brother that he didn’t need. That was quite the contrary, however, because without Balthazar the entire estate would be in chaos; the butler ran the place when Castiel was working, and carried out his orders when he was home. He was the only one in Castiel’s gigantic staff that could insult him and would be insulted in return. Anyone else would face punishment, except maybe Charlie, whose every mistake was some form of accident due to her klutzy personality. God knows how that girl operates a kitchen, but as long as her meals were delicious the politician didn’t ask questions.

“I saw Dean when you were carrying him in,” Balthazar noted matter-of-factly and fell into step beside Castiel, but his normal sarcastic demeanor had been scattered to the wind. “He didn’t look very well.”

“Indeed,” Castiel replied, biting his lip. The action stung, with the ward boss having broken skin earlier, and he needed to refrain from the habit until it healed. “Sam told me the story while Dr. Le Grange examined him. Apparently they’ve been floundering in so much debt that they’ve had to ration. And Dean…”

“Being the protective son of a bitch he is, gave his ration to his younger brother, who he feels he has a duty to protect,” Balthazar finished, and Castiel withdrew in surprise. The butler shrugged nonchalantly, which looked very odd in his tight suit that beckoned for rigid, formal movements, and if Castiel hadn’t been so worn he would’ve laughed. “I listen in on some of your conversations, my apologies,” he didn’t sound sorry, “in case Mr. Winchester was planning to kill you. You do have enemies that are…quite notable.” Castiel let out a scoff at the understatement, wringing his hands worriedly.

He tried not to be paranoid about it, like most people were when they realized how many foes faced them from the shadows, but he really couldn’t help his bursts of anxiety when his enemies were mentioned. Azazel, who was a tenement owner by day and the leader of the (was it Irish?) mob by night, had poisoned Castiel’s coffee once, which he’d only found out when the surface of the drink had rippled oddly and the belladonna pulp had fallen out when he’d emptied its contents. The only reason he knew the golden-eyed man was the one who’d done the deed was the fact that when he’d visited the next morning (which he never does), he’d seemed a bit more than surprised to find Castiel breathing. There was also Lilith, who was the wife of the Spanish mob leader, but in reality ran everything from the sidelines whilst using her husband as a pawn. She’d actually tried to set the Hall on fire, but luckily she’d been stopped by Good Samaritans who’d been passing by. Still on the loose, though. Needless to say, there were some considerable enemies that Castiel had to face, but he did it all with a smile and about a half-gallon of (preferably unpoisoned) coffee.

“Well I can assure you that the Italian mafia haven’t so much as made contact with Dean,” Castiel replied after the long pause. “I would’ve been dead long ago if that was the case.”

“Which isn’t necessarily a good thing,” Balthazar warned, his blue eyes glittering in the light, “Opening yourself up to a near-stranger is more dangerous than you may think, Cassie.”

“Don’t call me Cassie,” the ward boss ground out between clenched teeth. “I think we’re done here. You’re dismissed.” A muscle in Balthazar’s jaw jumped, since he was fully aware that Castiel _never_ dismissed him when they weren’t hosting guests, but he obediently left, most likely following the trail of the two servants who’d been gossiping, most likely to chew their heads off and to punish them justly. Castiel felt a twinge of guilt; he knew that the blond-haired butler was only trying to protect him, always having Castiel’s well-being in mind, and he was adamant to apologize for his actions later. He huffed a breath and crossed his arms, wandering through the library and towards the main staircase to the second floor. The smell books soothed him, and a fire was burning low in the hearth. Servants who were on break were tucked into the sofas and chairs, curled up with books in hand as they read by candlelight. It was a very calming sight for his tense and fraying nerves, and he lapped up the comfortable silence as if it were ambrosia.

Almost immediately after Castiel passed her plush bed, Bee hustled over and followed him into the hallway, the _pap pap_ of her feet and the jangling of her dog tags a familiar sound, and he picked up the little Yorkie. She licked his face and snuggled into his neck, her little body fragile as Castiel held her gingerly in his arms, as if she were made of porcelain. The ward boss could feel the rapid and excited beating of her tiny heart as the double staircase loomed ahead, its golden railings shining in the light of the flickering candles on the chandelier. Dean seemed to like Bee’s company when he’d visited, who didn’t like being in the presence of dogs, so perhaps her presence would boost his recovery time. The door was ajar, light spilling into the hallway that was lit by daylight and oil lamps, which signaled that Gabriel and Sam had already retreated inside.

Apollo and Artemis were lurking by the door, their tails flicking with interest as they sniffed around the opening, but Bee gave a very ferocious yap and the two felines tore away, their claws scrabbling at the floor as they disappeared in a blur of gold and silver tabby pelts. From inside the room, there was a mighty sneeze, and Castiel’s relief was unparalleled as he remembered a certain someone was incredibly allergic to cats. The ward boss was a bit nervous, though. He remembered the Dean at the beach, who was open and affectionate and even willing to kiss Castiel back, the everyday Dean who was animated and loved horses, and the Dean at their last meeting in Tammany Hall, who was bitter and wanted absolutely nothing to do with the politician. Both of the extreme Deans had been present in times of incredible emotion, Happy Dean cruising on a high wave of euphoria while Angry Dean hunkered down under a storm cloud. The only question was which of the Deans was the most like Normal Dean, and he wasn't sure which side he was routing for. Was it better to face rejection by Angry Dean or to pine for Happy Dean for the rest of his life? His emotions were so muddled, and he shoved all of his thoughts down as he shouldered his way into the room.

All heads turned, and Castiel felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the two green eyes that he was immediately drawn to. Dean was in bed, and even though the comforters were pulled over his shoulders and heaps of other blankets had been lain out on top of them, he was shivering. Though the sticks of his arms and the jut of his ribcage were hidden, the razor edges of his cheekbones could be seen very clearly, along with the dark shadows under his sunken eyes. Sam was sitting on a chair that had been pulled from the small table in the corner, and Gabriel lurked in the shadows as he leaned against the wall. Both of their expressions were sullen, and Castiel couldn’t blame them. Dean looked terrible, and in five long strides he was at the immigrant’s bedside, Bee still nestled in his arms.

“I brought a visitor,” the ward boss said weakly, a bit shell-shocked as he settled the Yorkie down onto the covers. Dean’s smile was strained, since he looked incredibly exhausted and incapable of the simplest things, but it was genuine all the same. Castiel had missed that smile for the past months. The Italian immigrant let out a ragged breath as Bee stuck her wet nose into his face and sniffed all around, eventually curling up on the space next to his head. She didn’t fall asleep though, instead vigilantly watching Dean with eyes that glittered with intelligence. It reminded Castiel why he’d purchased Bee, who’d been the runt of the litter and a bit less cute than her siblings, rather than any other lap dog. Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Castiel shushed him, knowing that the effort would be too big of a strain.

“Just listen, okay?” Castiel told him gently, but the firmness behind his words signaled that it was far from a request. “Would you rather me speak in Italian?” Dean considered this for a moment but then shook his head, which made Bee huff indignantly as she pawed at the pillow beneath her. They were lucky that he kept her fur short and clipped, unlike the “normal” Yorkie trim, or else her hair would be all over the place like some sort of brown and black mop. Gabriel excused himself, since he had a tenement to run, and Castiel and Sam bid him farewell, though the he was secretly glad that he had some privacy with the Winchesters.

“I know you two are going to object, but I have it all sorted out,” the politician began, and Sam poised in his seat, his brows crinkling.

“Uh-oh, this can’t be good,” the younger Winchester muttered under his breath, but the ward boss chose to ignore it, instead opting to continue:

“I would like for you two to move in with me.”

As expected, Dean made a noise of protest and Sam cried, “Absolutely not!” Bee jumped a bit, growling, and everyone settled back down, though reluctantly.

“First, hear me out-”

“No, Castiel. We don’t want to be babied, not that it wouldn’t be appreciated, but we don’t want to sap all your funds like leeches. You’ll be working your ass off while we lie around like slugs,” Sam interjected, his expression hard. Determined. This would be more difficult than what Castiel had first thought. He understood that the Winchesters didn’t want to be babied, but it was for all the wrong reasons; they were refusing out of a sense of righteousness, not because they were indignant. Castiel had plenty of money to spare, and the sooner the two Italian immigrants realized that, the better. He couldn’t play the matronly card, so he’d just have to pull the reasoning (and guilt) card.

“Your presence would be welcomed,” Castiel stated firmly. “I live alone in this house. Alone with Balthazar and my servants and my pets. Balthazar is the closest friend I have here, and even then we’re blocked by the boss-employee barrier when it comes to speaking of personal lives and other whatnot.”

“We’re two grown men. We take up space, we eat all your food. This will be a _disaster_ ,” Sam protested.

“What he said,” Dean rasped, but silenced when both Castiel and Sam’s glares leveled on him. Bee licked his face to soothe him, and he couldn’t suppress a small smile as the Yorkie’s rough tongue laved over his cheeks and nose. Luckily, Bee had been trained out of licking into people’s mouths and noses (which used to be a habit of hers) through Castiel’s violent sneezes and spluttering when the events occurred. At least Dean didn’t have to suffer the same experience, though Castiel would find it quite adorable if it did.

“My servants purchase far too much food for this house,” Castiel snapped. “Most of it goes bad before Charlie can cook it into something, and I hate seeing all of it go to waste when people in the streets are scrounging for morsels.” He gave the Winchesters a pointed look, and their gazes averted to the ground in unison. “I have many more bathrooms and bedrooms to offer you, and you will have nice clothes and sustainable living quarters.”

“Well it’s not fair that we get to live in the lap of luxury while the rest of the people work their asses off!” Sam harrumphed. “We need to work our way up like everyone else.”

“Don’t you get it?!” Castiel bellowed, his voice packed with so much aggravation that both Bee and the Winchesters cowered. Why didn’t they understand what was right in front of their faces? Didn’t Dean listen to his long rants about politics? He should’ve pieced it together by now. “You _don’t_ work your way up! The system is corrupted, ‘everyone has an equal chance for wealth’ my ass. You need to know the _right people._ You need to have the _right bloodline._ And you need to have the pig-headed greed that everyone else has. The people on the bottom _stay_ at the bottom, unless they cheat and manipulate and lie and deceive until they’re rolling in the money of their victims! I just so happen to be one in a long line of very, very wealthy people. My great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Cain, was a filthy poor immigrant from the Russian Empire, and he got his fortune by conning people until he reached the top. My family is there because one of our ancestors was such a swindling piece of scum that he got rich!

“Do you know why Gabriel is running a piece of shit tenement building? My parents cut him out of the inheritance before they died, just because he was…he was…bisexual! Now he has to pool in money like the rest of the masses because the right people he needed to know for his money wronged him. Luckily he was able to sell his suits and his possessions for a small fortune so he could live comfortably. But imagine if that hadn’t been the case!” Castiel had risen from his chair and was wearing a trench in the floor as he paced back and forth, making wide hand gestures and occasionally crying out curses in Russian.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean whispered, which made the politician halt abruptly and whirl around to face him. “I’m in.” Sam looked a bit shocked but not in any way angry or disappointed, which made Castiel hope that he wasn’t entirely against moving in.

“Good God, thank you-” 

“But I have some conditions.” Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat and gestured for the immigrant to continue. “You need to reveal Alastair, get him fired and replaced.” That was easy, considering the fact that Sam had let it slip that they’d harbored all of the paychecks they’ve ever received from the crooked man. “You need to give of my friends in the tenements jobs, either here or somewhere else, because I don’t want them living in shitholes.” Also easy, though he had to consult with Gabriel on whether that would affect his salary or not. 

This was mostly beneficial, however, because he heard that Ellen, her husband, Ash, and Jo were excellent cooks, and Charlie needed a helping hand once in a while. Rowena could be their doctor on standby, and Crowley was a tailor, and a good one at that, so perhaps Castiel could hire him, since his other tailor was mauled by a particularly large lion that his brother Lucifer may or may not have baited towards the employee on the family safari. Lisa, Ben, and the husband had to have jobs outside the house, not having any special skills that Castiel needed, but that could be arranged. Meg could be a companion butler to Balthazar, being very headstrong and capable of taking over when the poor man needed a break, and she needed a safe haven to work her suffragist work; it was dangerous, being a woman’s rights activist, but perhaps the suffragists could meet up in one of the many abandoned sitting rooms that were rarely used. The only problem was whether she’d be okay accepting hospitality from a ward boss, which was exactly what Progressives hated. He could only hope, really. 

He was so immersed within his plans that he nearly missed Dean’s final condition, “You also have to let us work, too.” Castiel glanced at him sharply, and Dean held his gaze with a measured calm of someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Castiel was a bit hesitant to agree, since this whole incident was caused by work. What if Dean felt like he wasn't contributing enough compared to Castiel’s tremendous salary? What if he began to overwork himself again? Castiel was used to it, but Dean, even though he was hardy, could only take so much physical labor. Then he had an idea, one that would serve to help Dean earn money and help Castiel get Dean back into those fucking hot chaps, and he nodded slowly. Sam grinned a bit, looking around with a bit of wonder in his gaze as he regarded the place that would be their new home, and Dean and Castiel’s gazes met. 

“Well hello there, housemate,” Dean chuckled. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Io non voglio perdere la cena- I don't want to miss dinner  
> Silenzio, mio fratello- Hush, my brother 
> 
> *only my bleak knowledge from Italian class and Google translate helped me so please correct me if I'm wrong*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long update I had severe writer's block! Just a note that I have no idea what Naples' tradition for Mardi Gras is and therefore the celebration described is just a speculation based off of the celebrations they have in Venice.

**_THE NEW YORK TIMES_ **

_New York, Tuesday, April 22, 1914_

**“WE WANT THEM OUT!”- IMMIGRATION CAUSING UPROAR AMONGST NATIVISTS**

           

Our nation is a nation of immigrants, where the Constitution and the Bill of Rights makes sure that _all_ men are created equal. “All men”, however, will become “too many men”, according to a particularly enthusiastic group called the nativists. They claim to be trying to preserve the purity of America and its inhabitants, and in order to do so they’ve been adamant about barring immigrants from the country. A particularly large section of the activists’ group is located right here in New York City, called the Immigration Restriction League, and they were willing and open for interview.

“We feel that immigrants will pollute the purity that is the glorious United States of America, and we can’t do that without the help of our government,” explains Charles Warren, a lawyer who founded the League. “I’m looking at you, Mr. President.” Warren is referring to the fact that President Woodrow Wilson’s policies on immigration aren’t very appeasing to the nativists, considering the President is very compassionate towards immigrants from all countries. We spoke with other members of the Immigration Restriction League to hear their thoughts about the situation at hand.

“I do agree that immigration is becoming a problem,” Azazel Byrne exclaims rather determinedly. “Even though I’m Irish and have nothing against my people, all of these southern and eastern Europeans are taking all the American jobs. Russians, Poles, and Italians are particularly bad. I’m not saying to throw out the ones that are already here, we can’t do anything about that, but I want to make sure no more come in. It’s all about isolating the problem and then taking care of it.” Azazel dutifully refrained from informing us what “taking care of [the problem]” entailed, and has since barred people from the Russian Empire, Italy, and Poland from his tenements, which he owns and runs.

On the contrary Miss Jo Harvelle, who, despite the fact that she is the seventeenth generation of American-born Harvelles, has quite a contrary belief compared to Mr. Byrne’s. “Many of the people in this city are immigrants, and they provide good work for this economy. If suddenly they all went away, we’d experience a terrible slump. People are sick in the head; unless your part Indian, you’re technically an immigrant! I think certain people are too insensitive for their own good. The Russians are fleeing as their empire collapses back at home! There’s a revolution against the czar, basically, and I bet you didn’t know that! War is brewing in Europe, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the people were too afraid to stay. We can’t let just not let them in and throw them to the wolves. Austria-Hungary and Serbia are already at each other’s throats, and Germany and the Russian Empire seem pretty uppity about it.” When asked how she knew all these things, Miss Harvelle explained how one day she wished to be a teacher, and her father was helping her study for the job.

When asked, local politician Richard Roman was willing to put his two cents in. “Please, just call me Dick,” Roman told us with a winning smile. “The cities are overcrowded. You know why? We keep letting immigrants in. I say we temporarily close Ellis Island temporarily and let everything…thin out, per say. We need to round up the scoundrels of society, those who deal in illegal workings to make profit, and deport them. You’d be surprised at how full the boat would be. Unlike some of my competitors, mainly Castiel Novak, I have no sympathy for these immigrants. Yes, their life is hard back home, yes they work hard for the country, but it’s not _their_ country. Of course, Lady Liberty tells us to take in the huddled masses, but now there are hordes of more ‘huddled masses’ than before.”

More information is yet to come.

 

\----Җ----

 

That morning Brutus and Achilles had caught two hooded figures who’d been halfway through painting “Scumbag Sympathizer” on the side of the stable in bold red, industrial-strength paint. Castiel had had them arrested, though the police carriage had taken far too long to arrive in his opinion, and for a moment he wished that he upgraded to cars like how everyone else was doing. Michael already had three, but Castiel was very set on tradition. Besides, he loved his horses, and cars were considered a nuisance in New York City streets, banned as to prevent the remaining teams of horses from spooking and to prevent kids from getting run over. The ward boss could only agree with them, and he feared that this new technology would begin a fateful takeover.

He couldn’t worry about the far future now, however, because he was too busy watching his servants trying to scrub off the terrible red letters, which read “Scumbag Sympa” since the dogs had expertly chased them off and cornered them. Still, he knew he’d have to have those words painted over before the Winchesters found out, and he relayed the message on to the servants, who responded dutifully. They couldn’t know that the house was being targeted; they would demand that Castiel find safety, since the public had no idea that the Italians were living in his estate (most would assume that they were relatives judging by the clothes Castiel had bought for them), and would prevent him from leaving as to keep him safe. The ward boss’ office at Tammany Hall was being subjected to nativist protesters, graffiti and the like, as were the other ward bosses who took care of immigrants. All were denying nativist claims in order to keep business good, but Castiel doubted that they actually believed immigrants deserved to be in America, too.

“Was something the matter?” Sam asked when Castiel plopped down on the seat next to his in the library. Dean was still at work. The younger Winchester was working on his English, and found that he had an undeniable urge to exact fair justice for immigrants. Not many lawyers would help immigrants who’d been convicted or sued, and the attorneys from the Public Defender’s Office were incredibly biased and terrible, almost as corrupt as the government itself as their own opinions got in the way of what their job entailed. Some of the immigrants taken to court hadn’t even learned English yet. Sam had relayed this information to both Dean and Castiel, and both of them were very enthusiastic about it. If Sam could get to college and law school, he could help immigrants who were new to the country and let them know of the rights that they had. Rights that were carefully concealed by those who were trying to trick them out of money.

The Winchesters refused to let Castiel pay for college tuition, saying that with the jobs they had they could wrack up enough money to go in just three years’ time, and the politician had grudgingly complied. Dean didn’t seem as enthusiastic about college as Sam was, and he insisted that the younger Winchester go before he did. They were fine with letting Dean refrain from college, which was quite normal, even for those who had the money to pay for it. Besides, Dean loved his job, unlike the terrible labor at Alastair’s factory, and a college degree wouldn’t benefit him a whole lot if he was going to stick with it.

“No, nothing was wrong,” Castiel told him, which wasn't technically a lie. Nobody had been injured and nothing had been technically broken. A new coat of paint didn’t take that much work to apply, so in Castiel’s eyes nothing was wrong. “Brutus and Achilles mistook a new servant for a burglar of some sort. It happens all the time.”

“That’s good,” Sam replied, sounding genuinely relived. “But did you see the paper?” He handed the one he was reading to Castiel, and from the bolded headline the ward boss knew why Sam had taken such an interest in it. The Italian immigrant waited patiently as Castiel skimmed the article that interviewed nativists who bashed those who’d come to America from a different country. He wasn't surprised that Azazel and Dick Roman had been interviewed, since they were very influential men, and he was even less surprised when Roman purposefully made a jab at Castiel and the way he had compassion for his clients. He didn’t understand why treating someone like a human being was considered a bad thing.

“It’s getting worse, but I think we can get through it. Reform is making way, and I’ve been looking for other jobs that pay as well as this one that don’t have to do with a corrupted system. I know I’ll be jobless once the Progressives get what they want, which’ll happen soon if what Jo said about Europe is true,” Castiel sighed, handing the paper back to Sam. He ran a hand through his already mussed hair, wondering what was going to become of this country. So many changes were happening, with Woodrow Wilson “trustbusting” like a maniac and making the free enterprise system actually free enterprise without all the monopolies exerting their power.

“Do you think that if there actually is a war in Europe, would we get involved?” Sam questioned, his brows furrowing with worry. He knew what wars entailed; drafts. Young men taken from their homes and families by the government’s orders to go serve. It’s never been done before, and Castiel hoped it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

“I doubt it. We have a very distant foreign policy. We don’t get involved unless absolutely necessary,” Castiel replied. “And even if it came to that, they don’t draft people who are educated, which you both will be once I’m done with you two.” Sam smiled faintly, something that was barely there and disappeared as quickly as it’d come, and he lowered his gaze back to the newspaper, consulting the Italian to English dictionary when he found words he couldn’t read correctly or understand. If Castiel hadn’t been so smitten for Dean, he might’ve fallen in love right there and then. From the minute movements of the younger Winchester’s eyes as he read, to the way he held Bee gingerly in one giant palm, to the way his untamed hair framed his face and was tucked behind his ears; it was all very endearing, but more of a brotherly way than anything else.

Castiel was about to leave when Balthazar hurried inside, and despite the fact that the Brit pretended to despise the Winchesters and their “barbaric manners”, the ward boss knew he’d taken a liking to them, if only minutely. This time, however, his face was scrunched up as if he’d sucked on a lemon, and Castiel clearly identified it as his “Filthy Americans” expression.

“Your boyfriend there is _beyond_ uncleanly,” Balthazar snapped, brushing invisible dirt off of himself. “He tracked dirt and horse shit all over the foyer and yet he still refuses to go to the washroom to bathe, claiming he’s going out later! Do you know how difficult it is to get those disgusting stains out of the carpets? The poor maids!” The butler continued to rant, and Sam and Castiel exchanged a playfully exasperated look as he continued to list why they should install an outdoor shower for Dean to clean off before he stepped foot over the threshold of the manor.

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel interrupted as Balthazar started to list what it would cost to update the plumbing in the manor; it was very, very archaic, still having need for chamber pots and the like, and with the new and improved flushable toilets coming out, the estate would start to fall behind when it came to up-to-date technologies. Heck, even iceboxes were going out of style as refrigerators were becoming cheap enough to be available to the public. “Where is he now?”

“Waiting for you,” Balthazar sighed, running a gloved hand over his face as he chewed on lip in an attempt to remain calm. Neatness and cleanliness were little pet peeves of Balthazar’s, and he ran the maids into the ground making sure that every stain and every speck of dirt had been abolished from the manor. He was part of the reason why Brutus and Achilles had to sleep in the stables; he was too paranoid that they’d keep tracking mud into the house, though apparently Dean was filling in for them. “He wants to take you riding again.”

“Excellent,” Castiel replied, grinning, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam giving him a pleasant and knowing look, which the ward boss was unsure of whether to be happy or terrified about. “Tell Dean I’ll change and he can go ahead. I’ll meet up with him and he can get the stable hands to tack Lincoln and a horse of his choosing.”

“Of course, sir,” Balthazar mocked, scowling as he stormed out of the room, muttering something under his breath about where Dean could shove the tack. He heard Sam chuckling and decided that he wouldn’t chew the butler’s head off about the dismal behavior he exhibited. “I don’t understand why he’d want to even go _near_ a horse after spending most of his day with them.”

“I don’t understand, either, but that's Dean for you,” Castiel chuckled, mostly to himself. Turning to Sam, he asked, “Would you like to join us?” Hesitance clouded the immigrant’s expression as he gingerly put down his dictionary and the newspaper, and he ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t really…um…know _how_ to ride,” he replied, wringing his hands and avoiding eye contact. “Impala was sold before I could get proper lessons and we weren’t really rich enough to have one after that.” Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“Well that makes it all the more important that you learn!” he exclaimed, and Sam’s face practically lit up, his expression lightening when he heard the ward boss’ reply. “Luckily I had riding slacks and chaps purchased for the two of you during the first week you moved in. I just assumed that you two both knew how to ride, so we won’t have to worry about how awful you’ll look squeezed into one of my old pairs.”

“I would look ridiculous,” Sam agreed, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as he rose to his feet. The two of them chatted nonsense for a while, commenting on the beautiful weather of April that, even though it was a bit chilled, was perfect for riding. They parted ways when Castiel reached the master bedroom, and the politician couldn’t help but think just how much he enjoyed the Winchesters’ company, how alive the manor had become since they moved in. Lucky for them, a particularly large batch of Greeks just arrived and their rent would compensate for the loss of the five families moving out.

Lisa, Ben, and her husband had been transferred to a high-end apartment building, with Mr. Braedon claiming an incredibly high-paying architect job, and even now they were paying off Castiel monthly, even though the politician had forbade it. They still did it anyway to express their gratitude. Crowley had opened up his own shop on Wall Street and was getting a ton of customers, and he and Rowena visited once or twice, having turned down the offer of housing (“You’ve been too generous, we couldn’t ask you for that, dearie! Don’t you _agree_ , _FERGUS_?”) Jo, Ash, Bill, and Ellen had also refused housing, instead taking the funds given to them and opening up a delectable (and successful) restaurant and bar called the Roadhouse, where Castiel, Sam, and Dean frequented if it was Charlie’s day off. They too were paying the politician back, despite his protests. Balthazar and Meg had split the job of butler, with the Brit taking half of the jobs and the Progressive, who was A-OK with moving in with a ward boss as long as he was working on changing his ways, took the other half. Needless to say, Castiel hadn’t found other work yet, which he was starting to worry about as Progressives began to get a hold of Congress.

Secretly, Castiel was glad that they hadn’t moved in. It would’ve been much more crowded and loud with several new additions to the estate, especially if one of them was an infant. The politician prized his time with the Winchesters and others, but his solitude was cherished as well, and he didn’t feel like that would be the case with the new additions. Sure, he could always confine them to the lower floors and make them somewhat servants, meant to be seen and not heard, but he was pretty sure that they wouldn’t’ve liked that. _He_ wouldn’t’ve liked that, either. With a contented sigh and a shake of his head, he began to dress for riding.

 

\----Җ----

 

“You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” Dean asked, giving his most flirtatious smile as he approached, rolling his shoulders and running a hand over his jaw in an obvious attempt to look seducing.

Amara didn’t seem amused and pinned her ears, pawing the ground with her hooves.

“You’re bitchy and pregnant, that’s for sure,” the immigrant scoffed, all the bravado flying out the window in an instant. “Seven more months to go, sweetheart.” Amara tossed her head with an angry whinny, as if she understood and was insulted by Dean’s words. The Italian liked to think that that was the case, and he grinned to himself as he unlatched the gate of the incredibly fancy stall and slipped inside with a bucketful of supplies. Amara grumbled unhappily and returned to eating her hay, though she kept an eye on Dean out of her peripheral vision. Her belly was swollen with the filly or colt that was soon to be an unnamed stud’s offspring, though Castiel had told him that the stud was, indeed, a Frisian and had scored highly in multiple dressage competitions. The breeding rights had been terribly costly, but to Castiel and Dean alike they were worth it.

“So, how’ve you been?” Dean asked as he took out the curry comb and began to thoroughly get the loose hairs out of the Frisian’s coat. Considering it was shedding season, tufts of black hairs were floating around as Dean continued to work, drawing the knowledge his father had handed down to him when they’d look after Impala. The Italian was sure to be gentle when he did the underside of her stomach, knowing that too much pressure on the sensitive and very important area would make her spook, and Amara gave him a reluctant snort of approval as she continued to nose around the hay. Dean had long since gone noseblind to the smell of horse, but he didn’t care; he loved that musky scent, and he smiled as he ducked under her arching, elegant neck (because there was a five hundred percent chance she’d kick if he dared to walk behind her), and did the other side. After that was done, he took out the soft brush to dust off the hairs that’s settled back down onto her coat and the eventually moved to the hard brush. He picked her hooves with only a small bit of resistance, even the back ones, and managed to at least minutely clean her face before she snapped at him in her annoyance.

“Touchy, touchy,” Dean chuckled as she snapped her tail and hit him in the face. For the record, the hair on horses’ tails and manes were _not_ silky and soft. They were coarse and irritating and they gave Dean a rash if they chafed too much. In this situation, with Amara pretending to swat away flies but in reality just wanting to annoy Dean, the immigrant was pretty sure his arms would be red by the time he stepped out of the stall. “Well, nice meeting you,” he stated and patted the black horse’s neck, picking up his bucketful of supplies. The stable boys would oil her hooves later, because he certainly wasn't going to risk working on her feet for that long; at least when he was picking her hooves she had to lift her leg up and therefore had no momentum to hit him in the face, but with oiling Amara would be happy to crush his fingers with a single stomp.

“I’ll take that,” says a stable hand that he’d come very friendly with, a man who went by the name of Benny Lafitte and had been working for Castiel for fifteen years and counting. “I hope she didn’t give you any trouble, brother.”

“I have all my fingers now, don’t I?” Dean chuckled waggling the appendages to prove his point, and Benny let out a rich chuckle.

“I have to go. Cupid’s been having intestinal problems lately and he shits like nobody’s business. The little guy still manages to be enthusiastic about it, though I don’t know what to tell Mistress Anna’s children when they come and want to ride him,” Benny explained, giving a playful roll of his eyes, and Dean laughed, making a mental note to take Benny out for a beer whenever he was available. The immigrant was like a kid in a candy shop, taking any work that the stable hands would give to him, and by the time Castiel and Sam had dressed, walked to the entrance and through the long, winding path that led to the stables, Dean was on a first name basis with just about everyone there. The little boy who’d opened the gate and run off during the first time Cas had shown him around was named Jesse Turner, though all the other hands called him the Antichrist behind his back due to his terrible temper and adventurous personality that usually got him into trouble. Particularly the time he’d tried to hand-feed Bela, despite the polite sign that clearly stated that nobody should hand-feed her, and had nearly gotten his index finger bitten off. Apparently, seven stitches hadn’t discouraged the kid at all.

“Wow,” Sam breathed as he took in the smell of horse and the homely, peaceful air of the stables. It was as tranquil as a church, really, the only sounds being the horses snuffling through the hay and the hands moving around upstairs, where the hay bales were stacked and the oats and other foods stored. Castiel and Dean allowed him to venture around a bit, though he wrinkled his nose when Cupid greeted him whilst smelling rancid. Benny waved and gave a thumbs-up at Dean as he scooped up piles of nearly liquid horse shit that didn’t smell too good either.

In the end, Castiel chose Bones, a dappled Percheron, for Sam, who was too tall for all the other horses. “He’s mild mannered and a little lazy, but I’m sure you two will get along in the end if you show him who’s boss,” Castiel explained as they got the horse’s saddle, bridle, girth, pads, and polos from the tack room. “Don’t let him get away with anything or else he’ll start exploiting you!” Bones seemed nice enough, definitely friendly, and Sam was given his first lesson on tacking a horse.

“First, show us how _you_ think a horse should be tacked,” Dean ordered, and Sam paled a bit as he regarded Bones and then the equipment that was supposed to be put on him. Bones was normally used for the carriage, as Castiel soon told them, but he was an excellent pleasure riding horse all the same, though the thing was at least sixteen hands high and dwarfed even Sam, who seemed daunted that he wasn’t the biggest living thing in the vicinity anymore. Castiel nearly stopped the younger Winchester only a quarter of the way through, but Dean kept him from doing so as he tried to retain giggles, though a few escaped his tightly sealed lips from time to time.

Needless to say, Bones was taking it all in stride, though he did look a bit confused. The fitted pad and the square pad were reversed, with the fitted pad under the square, and the saddle was backwards, much to Dean’s delight. What could he say? It was funny. Sam apparently thought the girth was supposed to go across the horse’s chest like a breastplate or a breast collar, and the sides had been tucked under the back of the saddle since Sam hadn’t found anywhere to attach it. Sam hadn’t even bothered to try and figure out the bridle, though at least he was in the right place when he wrapped the polos around the horse’s upper forearm. Even then, they were still wrong. The younger Winchester hung his head in shame, knowing that it didn’t look right at all, and his two companions burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Bones skittered a bit at the suddenness, but didn’t spook entirely, which Dean was glad for since he would’ve easily trampled them all in this small space.

“Let’s help you,” the elder Winchester chuckled and relieved Bones of his misapplied tack. For the next half hour or so, Castiel and Dean taught Sam how and where to put on the saddle pads, and in what order, and how the saddle was supposed to sit. They showed him how to connect the girth and how to tighten it, along with the knowledge of knowing when it had to be tightened or loosened. They showed him how to roll up the stirrups when leading the horse and how to put on the bridle, and Dean was glad that Bones was one of those horses who cooperated, unlike others that he’d encountered who’d toss their heads to avoid the bit.

He and Castiel worked in complete tandem, addling and unsaddling the horse in a precise unison that could be mistaken with partners who’d worked together for years. Many times their gazes met, and one of them always blushed and looked away before it could last for a noticeable amount of time; Sam was watching them carefully, after all. Now it was time to get into the saddle, and the younger Winchester was all jittery as he carefully led the gigantic Percheron outside to the mounting block. Castiel had retrieved Lincoln, already tacked, from his stall, and Dean had opted to ride Colt again, quickly saddling him up before leading him out with the others. Castiel attached a lunge line to Bones’ bridle, so he and Sam could wander a good five yards away before being stopped. This was partly because he and Dean agreed that they didn’t want Sam losing control or wandering off, though both situations would be absolutely hilarious.

After mounting, though with some difficulty on Sam’s part, they were off and down the trail that Dean and Castiel had taken during the immigrant’s first visit here. The nostalgia was overwhelming, and he found it difficult to concentrate on correcting Sam’s posture and the way he held the reigns when he was daydreaming about galloping across the estate with Castiel hard on his heels. Then there was the kiss, the soft press of the ward boss’ lips on his…

“Earth to Dean Winchester,” he heard the familiar baritone rumble, and he immediately snapped out of his petty daydreams. “What do you think of Sam’s stirrup work?” Dean gave a long look at the way his brother’s feet were situated in the metal rings that hung from the saddle.

“You need to put your heels down a little more,” he commented, and Castiel gave Sam an ‘I told you so’ look that was very adorable on him.

“He’s been telling me that for the past ten minutes!” he complained, pushing his heels down as best as he could without his feet slipping out of the stirrups. “It’s impossible.”

“It _is_ possible, so don’t complain,” Dean replied, and Sam pouted, though his eyes were sparkling with joy. With his sasquatch-ness, he made Bones seem like a normal-sized horse, which was a feat since he basically towered over Lincoln Continental and Colt, who didn’t seem to mind in the least as they walked along, though Dean could feel that the Mustang beneath him was raring for a hard gallop, or at least a trot. Sam wasn't ready for that, though, and if _he could keep his damn heels down_ he would probably be okay in the next…whatever this was called. Lesson? Session? Afternoon ride? He didn’t know, but all he could really process was his elation. He hadn’t felt this way since…

Since Madre died.

He was still happy during the entire trail, but he’d sobered up enough for Castiel and Sam to know that he’d been thinking about the past.

 

\----Җ----

 

" _We want her to win, don’t we?” Dean nodded enthusiastically and his Padre grinned widely. “So we all have to work together, even Sammy.” Dean laughed as the infant cooed in response. Sam was just a baby! He couldn’t help even if he wanted to! Madre made a funny face at him from where he was swaddled, and he let out a bubbly laugh that made Dean proud to be a big brother. They were all crowded in Impala’s stall, and his Madre looked as beautiful as ever, even in worn and dirty overalls and boots that she’d borrowed from Padre for this task. Mardi Gras was only five days away, and the entire city of Naples was preparing to celebrate. Parades, feasts, and much more were to come, but what Dean was really looking forward to was_ _the horse show. Horses were lavishly and sometimes funnily decorated for Mari Gras and judges would decide which horse was_ Il Cavallo di Martedì Grasso; _the Horse of Mardi Gras. One year the Wahcardos had painted Impala almost entirely red white and green save her head, mane, and tail. Yet they still hadn’t won the competition. They had some tough competition, and they'd have to do something extra special for that year._

_"Padre! Padre!” he cried, a sudden idea forming in his head. “I have a plan!”_

_They worked for hours straight, and his Padre even took off work one day just to help plan how they'd decorate Impala for the occasion. Impala didn’t seem too pleased to be the subjected to so much dress-up, but she took it all in stride as they scrapped and added to the idea that’d been Dean’s. He was so proud, and he was pretty sure that they’d claim the small trophy this year, one that was actually made of gold and had been purchased with contributions from the local government. Sammy seemed to want to help in any way he could, because he was especially mellow in the days leading up to the holiday, and Dean believed that he was doing it because he wished Madre to help with Impala’s costume rather than buzz around him and having to constantly pay attention. The entire city was decorating their houses with vibrant colors and Italian flags, and Dean was proud to live in this country, even if it did have its flaws._

_It took a long time, but eventually the costume was completed, though Dean was a bit nervous that it wasn't enough; some people worked for months on their horse’s dress-up, but they only spent five days. He soon realized that in the end it didn’t matter if they won or not; he was happy with his and his family’s work and wouldn’t want to change anything for the world. Eventually Fat Tuesday did roll around, and the Wachardo family woke up bright and early for Church. The parade and festivities would be afterward, but for the moment they were all dressed up in their clothes that were usually reserved for Sundays, and even Sammy was wearing a miniature tie. Madre looked stunning in her pale, off-white dress, her hair done up in curls, and Padre looked at her with raw tenderness and love in his eyes, like Madre was his whole world. Dean hoped that one day he’d find someone who looked at him like that, and who he looked at in return._

_"Are you guys ready?” Padre asked excitedly, hoisting Dean up in his arms as they joined the stream of people walking to the local Church, and Dean nodded excitedly. Madre met up with old friend and neighbors, speaking animatedly with them as she held Sammy in her arms, his meaty fists waving in the air as he laughed and blew raspberries. Dean clung to his Padre’s neck, breathing in his comforting and familiar scent, and he loved how strong his father’s arms were as they wrapped around him, shielding him from all harm as he carried the now four-year old to Church. It was as boring as ever, hearing the pastor drone and ramble on in that monotonous voice of his, and Dean had a hard time sitting still when he was so excited for what was to come afterwards. It was incredibly hot in the Church, which was packed full to bursting, and he wanted to be anywhere but there._

_It was over soon enough, however, and he practically raced Padre home when they were out the doors, Madre chugging behind and warning them not to fall and soil their clothes. Dean was so excited, and he could see the bands and the dancers preparing for the parade, which would start at exactly noon. They had to get ready, and fast. They had about an hour to style Impala to perfection and then put the costume on her, and Dean was practically vibrating out of his skin as he ran into the yard and watched Impala poking her head out. At least she seemed mildly exited, her ears perked and her nostrils flared as she sensed the urgency and excitement wafting from her owners, and she let out a giddy whinny of greeting as the Wachardos approached. Padre got her from out of the stall and hooked her lead onto the ring on the old tree in the paddock, and they immediately got down to work._

_Dean and Padre were in charge of brushing Impala’s coat to perfection while Madre focused mainly on her mane and tail. She’d gone to the bathroom right before they’d come home from Church, so they had little worry for her soiling the costume. Dean only came up to her gaskin, really, and he made sure to get her belly and her legs really well. He could see Padre’s legs as he worked on the other side, eventually working his way around as a flurry of horse hair rained down upon everyone, and he smiled at Dean as he worked on the rest of Impala’s body, even lifting Dean up so he could get her back and neck. Madre was working diligently, weaving red, white, and green flowers into Impala’s mane and tail. It’d taken a long time, but eventually they found someone selling patriotic flowers at a stand. They had plenty of flowers for the Wachardo to choose from, and they thanked the vendor countless times as they toted their huge basket brimming with flowers back home._

_Finally, after much preparation, the hand-made Italian flag was draped over the horse, embossed with glitter that twinkled in the morning sunlight and whose edges were also decorated with flora. The Friesian looked stunning, and Dean actually cried a little as he saw Impala standing regally in the costume that they'd made for her. Her bridle had flowers on it, too, and her hooves had been painted Italian colors. It was by far the best job they’d ever done, only rivaled by the time when they'd actually painted Impala the colors of the Italian flag. Madre leaned against Padre’s side, admiring their work, and Sammy cooed from the sling that he’d been tucked after they’d gotten home. The parade was about to start, and the Wachardos had to hurry or else they’d miss it._

_Needless to say, the event was wonderful. Padre had stuffed cotton into Impala’s ears to keep her from spooking as the crowd cheered and sang and yelled, and Dean was so happy he could die right there. Someone had been handing out mini Italian flags for free, and Dean was now gripping one tightly in his right fist and in the left he had a rainbow pinwheel, which spun wildly as he ran around Impala and his family, shrieking at the top of his lungs as glitter and confetti rained down from the heavens. Sammy was laughing and Madre and Padre raised their voices in song or in chant, and Dean ogled the dancers, their faces hidden by masks as they spun and twirled in whirlpools of multicolored fabric. It was like a rainbow had thrown up all over the city, and the parade was a motley of feathers and tulle and flowers and glitter and confetti and silk and_ home. _The other horses looked so good, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to care as Padre hoisted him onto his shoulders and he felt that he could see everything, from the enthusiastic bystanders to the equally passionate people participating in the parade. The items raining from the sky were coming from the people peeking out of the windows of the buildings that flanked the street on either side, all of whom had some sort of confetti or glitter that they were chucking into the air. It all combined into a heavenly cloud that got stuck in Dean’s hair._

_This was the best day ever, hands down, and Dean couldn’t help but let out a small sob as the music died down and the parade reached its end, though he was quickly rejuvenated when Madre reminded him that the horse show was beginning and the horses were being lined up in the park, which was where the parade stopped. Padre helped Dean off of his shoulders and the four of them led Impala to the group of incredible horses, all covered in a day’s worth of shiny bits and specks, though that only added to their aesthetic. Judges had already started coming down the line, both men and women, and they were marked by blue sashes that went across their chests as they examined every single contestant with distinct scrutiny._

_Dean felt his heart stop as they walked over to Impala who seemed to perk up at their arrival and stood tall. The judges whispered amongst themselves, marking things down on their clipboards, and when he found Madre’s gaze she gave him an excited smile as she rocked Sammy, who was beginning to fall asleep. It’d been an exciting day, so the four-year-old didn’t blame him. He deserved some rest. It seemed to take forever for the judges to analyze every horse, and even longer for them to deliberate amongst themselves in a copse of trees. The trophy glittered in their hands. Padre ruffled his hair reassuringly, and Impala snorted and tossed her head, as if to say, “We’ve got this in the bag!” Dean wasn't sure, though. Mr. and Mrs. Romano’s horse, Giuseppe, had won five years in a row, and the Pinto was dressed in a dazzling feathery headdress and a breastplate imbedded with rhinestones, a multicolored sheet draped over his back, and it was obvious that the Romanos had money._

_"We’ve come to a conclusion!” the head judge announced, his spectacles catching the light as he grinned widely. Dean waited with baited breath, crossing his fingers and looking up to the skies in hopefulness. He prayed to whoever was listening that they win, but he was okay if they didn’t; it was all about the fun of making the costume and not of winning the competition. “_ Il Cavallo di Martedì Grasso _is Giuseppe of Mr. and Mrs. Romano!” Polite applause ensued as the Romanos were handed the golden trophy, and Dean couldn’t help but let out a small sniffle. They’d lost again, and he’d been so sure that they’d be the winners this time. “In second place we have Impala of Mr. and Mrs. Wachardo!” Dean practically screeched in delight as a bubbly, middle-aged woman handed him a blue ribbon with a horse on it. It said “first place” but was obviously less grand than the Romanos’ trophy._

_Dean didn’t care, and as he was gathered into a tight hug by Madre and Padre, he knew there was no place he’d rather be._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, judging people by their color, race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or anything else is WRONG and I do not support it.

            Compared to the hustle and bustle of New York City, Dean had to admit that Long Island was much more pleasant. Don’t get him wrong, the Big Apple was where dreams came true and there was something new and interesting around every corner, but growing up in Naples had made Dean very much accustomed to the hush and serenity of the countryside. The city was beginning to spread its gangly roots, more buildings extending out onto the two-pronged island, but most of it was just farmland. It was in that farmland where Dean worked, only about a mile out from Castiel’s estate. Purgatory Range, it was called, and it was a place where heroes were born and bred. At least a quarter of all successful dressage and race horses had come from these stables, and Dean felt that it was an honor to work there.

            Owned by the mysterious and elusive Abaddon Knight, a widower who’d inherited her late husband’s stables and fortune, the Range was about one hundred acres of sprawling plains and meadows, the grass neatly trimmed by gardeners every week, since that’s how long it took to finish the property. Dean felt bad for them; as soon as they finished they’d have to start all over again. Unsurprisingly, Dean was one of the stable hands. His extensive knowledge of horses and their care had allowed him to climb the ranks and become second-in-command in three months or less, though he’d refused to take the commanding spot; that would mean he would be mostly a supervisor, and it was more paperwork than anything else. He’d much rather be with the horses and doing the gritty work than watching other people and hunkering down in some prissy office. Gordon could handle that on his own, thank you very much.

            He sighed as he shoveled more horse shit and dumped it into the wheelbarrow, wiping off the sweat that beaded on his brow. He had absolutely no complaints, but sometimes caring for horses was hard, especially if you had to manage two hundred sixty of them. The wheelbarrow smelled rancid, and he’d have to empty it out soon before he went any further, and he glared accusingly at the pearly white Andalusian who’d made the mess. It just tossed its head and snorted as if to say, ‘ _Not my fault, I can’t poop anywhere else_ ’. He was working with a young woman named Ellie, who’d been at the ranch for thirteen years. It was a bit odd seeing her as a ranch hand, but when he’d teased her about it she’d backhanded him across the face. Dean had backed off after that.

            She was beautiful and Cuban, with almond-shaped eyes and dark brown hair that was almost black, the strands drawn away from her face in a half-ponytail most of the time. Her mother had died from Parkinson’s disease, which Dean hadn’t even heard about until now, and had apparently immigrated to America for a clean slate, away from the ghost of her mother and her deadbeat father. While dean shoveled out the poop, Ellie replaced the old bedding with fresh straw, which the Andalusian seemed pretty pleased about, judging by the twitch of its ears.

            “It never occurred to me _why_ I liked horses,” Ellie suddenly stated aloud, using the pitchfork to scatter the bale of hay and spread it all over the roomy stall. “I just did. They were fun to ride and it was the one thing in this ‘Man’s world’ that women like me were allowed to do,” she admitted.

            “Progressive?” Dean asked without looking up.

            “ _And_ Suffragist,” Ellie replied proudly. It normally wasn't a thing that people openly discussed, considering many people became violent when anything having to do with suffrage, and Dean admired the stable hand’s courage. “But those two kind of come hand in hand, you know?”

            “Naturally,” Dean replied, grinning and shaking his head.

            “Damn straight,” Ellie huffed, and the two of them shared a hearty chuckle, even though Dean had yet to figure out what that meant. He was still stumped when it came to American lingo. Why did they say ‘it’s raining cats and dogs’ when it was not, indeed, raining cats and dogs? He got that it was an expression, but _why_? When he’d asked Castiel the ward boss just shrugged and told him that that’s just how it was.  They lapsed into a comfortable silence, eventually finishing up the Andalusian’s stall and moving on to a gorgeous Appaloosa, who eyed them warily but kept its distance. Ellie informed him that she was a biter, and as long as Dean didn’t bother her, she wouldn’t bother him.

            For a few more hours they worked in tandem, never exchanging words but somehow knowing what the other would do at one time. Dean spaced out, doing his work mechanically as he mulled over things, but nothing too serious. He was mildly worried that this wouldn’t be a good year for the crops, since it’d been abnormally dry, but nevertheless there was always something to eat at Castiel’s. Dean himself had accumulated amounts of money from this job that he never would’ve dreamed of before, and he smiled to himself when he realized that America was, indeed, full of opportunity, even though it contradicted what Castiel had said the night he’d announced the Winchester’s moving in. 

            Eventually his shift was over and he could go home. He bid Ellie, who actually lived at Purgatory Range like many others who worked there, a hearty goodbye, promising that he’d see her tomorrow, and took off down the road. It was very quiet for a Friday, but Dean knew that he got out of work much earlier than most did. Out here it was especially calm; most were farmers or vineyard owners and rarely needed to leave their property unless they were out to buy more equipment or seeds. That was a downside for Dean, because that meant that next to no cabbies were available to be hailed. Castiel had suggested that he ask one of the stable hands waiting to pick him up in the carriage, but the ward boss usually used the carriage, and he needed it more than Dean did, so he’d declined. He was perfectly okay with walking, the distance, which was by no means far.

            He submerged into his thoughts, planning on what he should do, but, like most walks home, his thoughts drifted to Cas. His dazzling azure eyes that were so many shades they couldn’t be insulted by just being called ‘blue’, and his smile that used to be rare but now appeared much more often. Then there was the Kiss. They’d kept their distance after that, and Dean wondered what they would do. It’s not like they could just ignore the fact that Castiel kissed him and he kissed back and it was all romantic and shit, but they managed to do it, much to Dean’s dismay. Castiel did give him long stares, but he did that to everyone so Dean just assumed that that was part of who Castiel was, and he didn’t act any differently towards Dean than he did to Sam. No flirty glances or any sort of signal that told him that yes, he wanted to delve deeper than this whatever-the-fuck-we-have. It was so frustrating on many different levels, and Dean, even though he was still very nervous of the fact that he was totally okay with men and women alike, and he could be beaten publically without his attackers having any repercussions from the authorities if it every leaked. He was sure that moment on the beach had been private, though.

            Then there was the fact that Cas had said ‘I love you’ to Dean when the immigrant couldn’t understand him. That had to count for something, right? Was it a joke? Some more American lingo that Dean had yet to understand? Why wasn’t Castiel making a move? Was he too nervous to make a move in case Dean wasn’t okay with it? Then that would mean they were locked in a vicious cycle. The Italian decided that. When he got home, he could go out for another ride with Cas and then he would announce his feelings. If he was rejected, so what? Castiel was a more than decent guy and wouldn’t kick him out for liking men and women, but then there was always that sting when it came to your, well, crush, rejecting you, telling you that they didn’t reciprocate your feelings. Love was a difficult thing to process, and could be dangerous if toyed around with. He didn’t want to be led on like some lovesick puppy, but he didn’t want to be turned away, either. It was unfair beyond belief, but then again the immigrant’s life had been nothing but unfairness. This was just the Winchester curse; everything has to be a chore.

            His mind set and his heart fluttering excitedly in his chest, Dean broke out into a jog. The roads were still empty, though Dean was unsure of whether a cab had passed while he was deep in his thoughts (in that case, he’d blame the Winchester curse yet again), and trees flanked either side. Though there was no sidewalk, it was pretty hard to get run over. Cars were too loud and clunky not to be noticeable, and Dean could easily step out of its path, and horses weren't too keen on trampling people unless they were spooked or felt threatened. Nevertheless, Dean stuck to the sides, lest a cab came hurtling through the streets since the passengers were in a rush. Even if they were agile, horses couldn’t stop in time if they were at a full gallop.

            He drank in the sounds of nature. From the deer that sometimes darted across the street or shuffled warily from behind the tree line at Dean’s approach, to the birds singing merrily in the trees, it was a very serene place. Just thinking about these woods turning into an urban monstrosity made Dean’s chest ache. He couldn’t wait to get back to the state, couldn’t wait to tell Castiel that they could be together if he was up for it, and he couldn’t help but smile. He was beginning to see familiar landscape, and the fence that lined Castiel’s property reached up to the sky, almost invisible behind the dense trees and foliage. Dean always teased Cas about the metal spikes at the top, saying it made the estate look like a detention facility…not that anyone would be able to climb up far enough; they were about fifteen feet high with no handholds, just straight, closely-packed black metal bars. There were still openings, though, and Dean knew that Castiel was trying to hide the damage vandals had done; the stables had absolutely not needed a new coat of paint a few weeks ago, and red spray paint poked out from underneath.

            “Hey, you!” Dean whirled around to see a cluster of men, fanned out behind him. The one in the center was the one who’d spoken, and he stepped forwards. The accent he had could only be described as American, singling him out as definitely not an immigrant. Judging by his posse, they had the same situation. He was big and burly, his jaw squared and his muscles corded from working the plow. His skin was tanned from hours in the sun, reddened and peeling in some places. His cheeks were heavily freckled, and his stubble was borderline beard. A tattoo of an American flag on his shoulder seemed to wave at Dean whenever his arm moved. He found himself rooted to the spot as they approached in perfect formation, stopping only two yards away. Their eyes glittered and their teeth were a bit yellowed when they grinned, ones that didn’t have any humor.

            “Y-y-yes?” Dean stammered, eying them. His body and mind were both screaming at him to run, but these guys could almost certainly outrun him. Besides, maybe they were selling stuff? He chastised himself for making up such a pitiful excuse. These guys obviously didn’t mean well.

            “See, I knew it,” he told his gang, chuckling frigidly. His eyes gleamed with intelligence, and what other countries said about Americans were wrong; they were incredibly intelligent. Perhaps not in certain areas, such as reading and writing, but this man’s intelligence obviously was inlaid within fighting. He was no newbie at this. “His accent.” His voice became mocking, and he leered at Dean, “Does-a the gavone-a want to make-a some spaghetti?” The entire group erupted into raucous laughter, and Dean’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. He didn’t want to get involved with these losers, and he spun on his heel and was beginning to walk away, the gate to the manor just around the bend, but a meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder, whirling him around to face him.

            “Are you-a running away from-a me?” the jackass cajoled, causing another uproar amongst the other men. “Are you-a taking the jobs of-a the Americano?”

            “No, I’m not,” Dean ground out through clenched teeth. He knew that violence was what these guys wanted, that they were baiting him into punching first so they had an excuse to beat him to a pulp, but breaking this guy’s nose sounded like a really good idea. With the corrupted, though mending (through the Progressives), system, they would rule it out as provocation and the group would get off without a hitch.

            “Really, now?” he asked innocently, dropping the terrible, stereotypical accent. “Then what _are_ you guys doing? Trying to bring the war brewing over there over to us? Well we don’t want it! Right, boys?” The other men chorused their agreements, scattering insults and racist slurs into the mix, and Dean felt as if he was on his wits end. If he didn’t react, they would leave him alone, but that philosophy was beginning to go down the drain. The leader took two steps forwards and Dean took two steps back, all of his muscles tensing to run if necessary.

            “I’ve been here for a few years now,” Dean lied, “I came before there was any hint of a war.” At least that last part was true, if only in part, but the men didn’t seem to be buying into it. “Hey, I know English well enough. You know I’m not lying. Why would someone fresh off the boat be this fluent?” They muttered amongst themselves, looking unnerved and slightly torn over whether they should pound Dean into dust or not. The leader didn’t seem fazed, however, and the team was obviously drawing their confidence off of him. If Dean could somehow get him to hesitate, he had this in the bag. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get home.” He didn’t specify the fact that his home was right there, or else they’d probably regroup and storm the place.

            “In a shack, I suppose?” he jeered. “Poor rat you are.” The others echoed him, though they still looked a bit hesitant. “If you haven’t figured it out already, we’re nativists, and we’re making sure that beasts like you don’t infect this country’s pure gene pool, if you know what I mean.” He grinned, though it looked more like a scowl, and a shiver went up and down Dean’s spine.

            “I’ve worked hard. I’m not poor,” Dean hissed. _It’s not that you’re not poor, it’s just that Cas is rich. He’s you’re sugar daddy, isn’t he?_ the voice that’d burrowed into his brain chided. He swallowed hard, knowing that it was, in part, the truth. Even with his increased funds, he would still only be able to afford a tenement, despite the fact that there would be much less scrounging for money and a bit more comfort than his last experience.

            “Then show us you’re house. You said you were going back there?” the leader snarled, and he knew that Dean knew that he was trapped; he couldn’t stay quiet or deny, because that would make his statement seem false, and he couldn’t lead them back or else they’d come back to harass him again and again. Moreover, they probably wouldn’t believe him if he told them that Castiel’s estate was also his, and that he used all of his funds to chip in with the expenses, never keeping any for his personal spending. He opted for staying silent, and the leader grinned, holding his arms out in an ‘I told you so’ gesture as his posse cackled like demented hyenas.

            Dean didn’t expect the first punch. The leader lunged without warning, and Dean heard the sickening crunch of his jaw breaking as he staggered, losing his balance and falling down. It was like the pack of dogs in Jack London’s _The Call of the Wild_ , when Curly didn’t get up in the fight. They descended upon him like beasts, and those who were boxed out yelled encouragements to their acquaintances and spat insults at Dean. He was hailed with punches, each one making his whole body shake. His nose was broken by the end of the first minute, at least three ribs fractured by the second. He kept struggling though, even as the men shoved him down and spat in his eyes. They tore at his clothes, destroying his beloved pair of chaps and wrestling his favorite riding boots off of his feet to stomp and shred them. He managed to sneak in a few blows of his own, but he was coughing up blood, which also ran from his nose and a cut on his forehead. His left eye had long since swelled up, and the gang was purposefully trying to keep him conscious, despite the nasty blows to his head. He was seeing double, and was pretty sure he heard enraged barking coming from somewhere, but he couldn’t be sure.

            It felt like forever until Dean finally collapsed, just _taking it_ , and he was glad that the men didn’t linger for long after that. He heard their laughing fading away and just lay there in the road. He was dizzy, and blood dribbled from his mouth. A molar had been knocked clean out, causing blood to dribble from the corners of his mouth, and his chest blazed with a terrifying agony that he couldn’t compare to anything else even remotely this severe. His jaw spiked with pain, when he murmured a raspy, “Help,” knowing that nobody would reply. Cas and Sam would probably find him later, when they were worried of his absence, and by then it would already be too late. Dean’s chest was caked in blood, which dribbled through his fingers and he pressed against the wound (which hurt pretty fucking badly, but he was pretty sure someone had stabbed him).

            His heart leapt with newfound panic when he realized he would never be able to tell Cas of his feelings. He struggled, but that was intolerable and he cried out in anguish. He could only take so much before he was forced to stop, and by then he was lying on his back in a pool of his own blood. Tears leaked from his eyes, streaking his cheeks, and it wasn't only from the numbing pain that he felt. He needed to stay awake. Needed to brave this out until a search party arrived. He needed to tell Cas that he felt butterflies when he was around or close to him. Needed to tell Cas that whenever he spoke or make a funny comment he became all warm and tingly inside. He needed to tell Cas that he was the best person in the world for asking Dean to study English with him at nine o’clock, and that the immigrant’s life would never be the same. He needed to tell Cas how happy he made him feel and how he wanted to grow old and grey with him on the porch of some white picket-fence house.

He needed to tell Cas that he loved him.

            Dean fought valiantly for at least ten minutes, forcing his eyes open and sobbing out declarations of love and reverent whispers to the ward boss of the immigrants from southeastern parts of Europe, but he eventually was plunged into the darkness that was consuming him.

 

\----Җ----

 

            Castiel knew something was wrong the moment he heard the howls of his dogs. The Rhodesian ridgebacks bounded over to where he and Sam were seated in the courtyard, talking animatedly to each other about Greek and Roman mythology, and let out high-pitched whines and yelped. They sounded…worried. Achilles seized the leg of Castiel’s trousers and tugged, letting go and darting in the direction from which they came before coming back to attack Castiel’s pants again. Brutus was barking madly, leaping madly while pointing back, and there was no doubt that they wanted them to follow.  When the two exchanged a look and rose to their feet, the two dogs wasted no time before charging towards the entrance to the estate, baying as if they were on a hunt. The ward boss had no idea what was going on, but he would be lying if he said he’d ever ran faster than he’d ran at that moment.

            The gatekeeper wasted no time opening the gate to let them through, and the dogs skidded, their claws scrabbling at the road as they took off like bullets. Right in the direction where Dean was supposed to be making his way back to the estate. Castiel felt as if his chest had turned to lead, because it felt heavy as he sprinted after his dogs, who never ceased their howls and cries. Sam was wild-eyed and panting, running easily for a man who had zero experience doing it in mildly dressy shoes. The ward boss’ heart was slamming like a bass drum inside of his ribcage, his blood singing and roaring in his ears as he pushed himself forwards, and he felt the fear consuming him. Even though this could be anything, a bear or vandals, his gut told him that Dean was in danger. Sam was probably thinking the same thing, because he panted, “What if Dean’s in trouble?”

            “We’ll just have to find out,” Castiel gasped in reply, and they lapsed into a terror-filled silence as they raced after the dogs, whose howling had reached its climax. They were obviously frightened, and Castiel had never seen them like this. Ever. What was even more chilling was that their wailing was becoming grave and more fervent. Somber. Like wolves in mourning. He didn’t want to think about what that could entail, but he was preparing for the worst. Was he hit by a carriage? Or perhaps a car? Was someone with him right now, trying to help him? There were only so many things that could happen to a person in the countryside, but every single one of those things could possibly be fatal, and Castiel’s heart constricted when he dwelled on it. Batting the thoughts away, he concentrated on pushing his screaming muscles ahead, towards Brutus and Achilles, who rounded the bend with grace and agility like no other, their russet coats gleaming like liquid copper in the late afternoon light. For a few moments Castiel panicked, the dogs out of sight but still baying, but when he turned to corner he nearly stopped dead.

            For a few seconds he thought it was a dead deer that’d been hit by a car, another reason not to get one of those monstrosities, but all too soon he realized it was a person. A very familiar person. Sam was the first one to react, letting out a bone-chilling cry and running forwards, collapsing at Dean’s side. Castiel followed in suit, stunned into silence as he watched Sam crouch in the pool of crimson surrounding his brother. A pool that was a little too big. The younger Winchester wept when he saw Dean’s battered and bruised face, the bulge of his broken nose and the stab wound to his abdomen. He keeled over, his face only inches away from Dean’s blood-soaked chest, when suddenly they saw it. The slight intake of breath and the even slighter exhale, and when Sam took his pulse his eyes filled with hope.

            “I took a class in urgent medical care,” Castiel informed him quickly, kneeling beside him and ignoring the way his trousers became soggy. “Go and get Balthazar to fetch Rit Zien. He’s the healer I’ve hired. Bring Brutus with you.” Sam could only nod mutedly before dashing off, with Castiel whistling to Brutus and pointing at the younger Winchester as he sprinted away. The dog looked hesitant to leave but dutifully followed, his claws clicking on the road as he easily closed the distance and eventually passed Sam, leading the way back. Castiel whirled around to see Dean still breathing, still clinging to life. His hands were still covering his wound, though they were limp.

            “Hey, I got you,” Castiel whispered, mostly to calm himself down rather than Dean. He replaced the immigrant’s hands with his own, pressing down hard. There was no way to put a tourniquet on, so he could only wait as blood seeped through his fingers. “Oh, Dean, who did this to you? It doesn’t matter. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Sam went to get help. You’re going to be okay.” His voice was strained, like he was trying to convince himself, and a single tear trickled down his cheek. Achilles was pacing agitatedly, occasionally stooping down to lick the small cuts on Dean’s face. Castiel hoped the saliva would keep the small wounds from getting infected, but there was no telling what this huge gash would do. He prayed to anyone who was listening that Dean would be okay. That this wasn't a mortal wound that would tear Dean away from him. He hadn’t even gotten to tell Dean that he loved him. The thought of the immigrant dying without any idea of how deeply Castiel cared about him made his stomach twist into knots, but that made him all the more resolved to get him back on his feet again.

            “Cas!” It seemed like eternity before he turned to see Sam sprinting down the road, with Rit Zien in tow. Brutus was barking wildly as he scampered over and helped Achilles lick all the dirt and blood off of Dean’s face. Reluctantly, Castiel allowed the healer to take his place. He already had a medical kit with him, but Cas knew that he was known for making mercy kills before the time was right. If he misdiagnosed Dean and said that killing him would end his suffering when the immigrant was, indeed, capable of surviving, Castiel wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He huddled off to the side with Sam, who was worrying at his bottom lip so hard that it was starting to bleed. Cas didn’t want to see any more blood than necessary, and he turned away, beginning to feel queasy as his heart pounded in his chest.

            He could only sit back and watch Rit work. He was one of his brother’s recommended doctors, and after that whole incident with Dean starving himself, he wanted to make sure that there was someone with medical experience on call at all times. Rit was incredibly young for a doctor, and his blond hair was neatly styled to perfection, his stubble carefully trimmed to make it look classy. Despite what most would consider inexperience, Rit Zien was very skillful, producing alcohol to sterilize the wound, cleaning it thoroughly, and Castiel was glad that Dean wasn't conscious to feel the agonizing sting that undoubtedly came with it. Both he and Sam had to turn their backs as Rit produced a needle from his kit, along with some string, and the silence caused their ears to ring, the only sound around them being their labored breathing and raging hearts. The dogs were whimpering but standing vigilant, making sure nobody disturbed them as they circled and paced frantically. Pretty soon Dean had soggy red gauze bound tightly around his middle, and his head lolled to the side as Rit and Sam carried him.

            They could only pray.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, I need some guidance!

Dean felt like he was floating on the ocean, gliding along like a piece of driftwood and waiting to be carried to whatever destination the water decided was best for him. Even so, the ocean was never this warm, even during the hottest summers in Naples, which were pretty damn hot. Otherwise, Dean probably wouldn’t’ve taken a dip to cool himself off, because the ocean he was floating in certainly wasn’t any warmer than the land. He yawned, and shifted slightly, ignoring the pain that flared up in his side and the ache of his jaw, which served as a reminder that he wasn't in some carefree dream world where he could ignore his troubles.

This was nice, though, and for the moment Dean was content to just stay where he was. He felt like a child being swaddled, which was quite comforting even to the manliest of men, and he burrowed deeper into the blankets and comforters that were heaped on top of him. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was only in his undergarments, which was mortifying to say the least, but he decided to disregard it as he breathed in the smell of woodsy air. He opened his eyes a crack to see the windows of his room thrown open, which was funny considering they were trying to keep him warm, but Dean could only be grateful for the slight breeze that circulated through the bedroom, which kept it from becoming stuffy but didn’t make it too cold, either.

Dean spent the next few hours drifting in and out of consciousness, sleeping like the dead at one moment but then wide awake the next. He tried not to make the comparison to death as the memories of the past events poked and prodded at his mind, demanding attention. He could be dead, for all he knew, but he was pretty sure that in Heaven he wouldn’t feel the throb of his wounds, though this place was too nice to be Hell. He settled with the conclusion that he was not, indeed, dead, and therefore someone had found him and had given him medical attention. They’d apparently sewn up his wounds and set his jaw, both which ached with every single movement he made, and the all-encompassing relief that he hadn’t bled out in the street outweighed the slight discomfort. Christ, Cas and Sam must’ve been worried sick, and his relief drained out of him, replaced by anxiety.

Where were they? Were they downstairs? Why weren’t they with Dean? Did the nativists come and try to kill them, too? Should he go look for them? He decided against that, however, because he knew that the only thing worse than fretting and fussing Sam and Cas were fretting, fussing, and _aggravated_ Sam and Cas. His brother would probably throw a bitch fit, ranting about how he could’ve fallen down the stairs or torn some of his stitches in the process, while Cas hauled him up the stairs bridal-style and plopped him back into bed and tucked him in and wished him sweet dreams and kissed him on the nose…

Hey, maybe it wasn't _such_ a bad idea, after all.

Even so, he didn’t want to risk it all out of speculation. Maybe Cas had a little Sam in him, and the two would gang up on Dean to chew his head off about how he needed to make sure he took care of himself from now on. No, it was best that Dean stay in bed and rejoice in his time as an invalid. A very pleasing image of Castiel dressed in a nursing uniform whilst spoon-feeding him touched the edges of his mind, and for a moment he allowed himself to think of the way the pinafore apron would cling to the ward boss’ lithe frame, all ruffles and lace, and the nursing cap nestled within his messy locks. He didn’t even want to get started on the high heels and the dress, and Little Dean gave a little jump of interest.

 _Not yet,_ he scolded himself, but he was secretly hoping that, once he and Castiel established what they were doing with this whole…thing they had, they’d be able to do kinky shit like that. But there was a doubtful part of him, one that, instead of questioning the fact that he was apparently bisexual, questioned whether Cas was. Sure, Dean had known that he’d checked out one or two guys’ asses in his lifetime, and more than regularly thought of a husband in place of a wife, though both were fine to him. The only problem was if Cas thought the same way. That little voice in his head told him that Cas wasn't really interested, that Dean was his charity case and that’s all, but the rest of him argued with images of the way Cas stared at him when he thought Dean wasn’t looking; the tenderness in his eyes and the way his entire expression seemed to soften. Nobody could fake that kind of look.

 _But Cas is a politician,_ the voice chided. _He can fake anything._

He was yanked out of his thoughts when he heard the soft creaking of the door swinging open, followed by the sound of two sets of footsteps entering his room. Instinctively, Dean’s eyes flew shut, evening out his breathing and feigning sleep as the two unidentified figures crept towards his bed. Were they nativists? Had they killed everyone in the house and now picking off all the stragglers? Dean knew that he couldn’t handle another fight, especially if these guys carried firearms or something like that, but he could only pray that these people were friendly.

“He’s still asleep,” came a low, gravely whisper that was a bit too loud to be considered a whisper, and Dean had to fight the urge to grin at Cas’ pitiful attempt.

“He’ll be alright. Rit Zien said so,” replied the more measured voice of Dean’s brother, and the immigrant’s stomach sank when he heard the thick accent of his brother’s voice; he switched to Italian when he was upset, much like Dean, and he could already hear the mumbled words under the younger Winchester’s breath. “ _Perché ha farsi male? Questa è tutta colpa mia. Ho dovuto tenere un’occhio migliore su di lui, specialmente dopo che l'intero incidente con lui fame da lupi se stesso. Avrei dovuto fare qualcosa per aiutarlo. Ora lui è costretto a letto con una ferita coltellata cazzo nel suo petto e una mascella rotta e non posso aiuto lui. Mi sento così impotente. Inutile, inutile ..._ ”

“Sam, calm down,” Cas assured him, but Dean could hear the stress in his voice as he tried to console his brother. “Dean will be okay. He always is.”

“ _Sì, ho capito, ma_ -” Sam’s words stuttered as he reverted to English, “Yes, I understand, but there’s so much that we don’t know about the event. And Dean’s not the feeling sharing type.” There was a moment of dead silence, which the immigrant found odd, but he could only assume that there was an expression on Cas’ face that was one full of something he couldn’t identify; _that look._ It was the one thing that had given Dean confidence when he’d decided to share his feelings, and it was at that moment that he was no longer content to just sit on the sidelines. With a groan, he shimmied out of his cocoon of blankets, ignoring the pain, which had dulled somewhat as he’d listened to the conversation, that flared up when he moved. He blinked around blearily, his eyes adjusting to the bright light that filtered through the windows and cast patches of light onto the shadows of the floor, and was able to make out the fuzzy silhouettes of Sam and Castiel. Needless to say, it was a welcome sight.

“Dean!” Sam was upon him before he could sit up, his huge Sasquatch arms wrapping around the immigrant’s chest and crushing the living daylights out of him, careful to avoid the wound. That didn’t mean that it wasn't slightly uncomfortable to be squashed by a six-foot-four puppy. “ _Fottuto coglione! Ero preoccupato male, ho pensato che stessi per morire! Ho pensato che stavo guardando mio fratello sul letto di morte, che aspettano solo per lui per, si sa, e non avete idea cazzo come molto mi dispiace di non essere lì per te-”_

“Easy, Sam, easy,” Dean mumbled into his brother’s ear as the younger Winchester continued to ramble nonsense in lightning fast Italian. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Dean felt dampness on his shoulder, and he could only think how fucked he was; hen Sam started crying, you knew it was a big deal, and he hated the fact that _he_ was the reason why his brother was feeling so fucked up right now. He couldn’t wallowing his own self-hatred, though; now when his brother was doing the same. Neither of them were at fault really; Dean couldn’t’ve fought off those nativists and Sam could never have gotten there in time, even if he had these psychic visions that gave him the ability to see the future, to see when bad things were going to happen. Dean realized, belatedly, that if it weren't for Brutus and Achilles he would’ve been dead. He’d have to give them an entire steak when he had the chance, though he could only assume that Cas awarded them accordingly. Otherwise he’d have to reconsider his choice of a crush; what sort of person didn’t reward their dogs for saving lives? Crazy people, that’s who.

Speaking of whom, Castiel was standing to the side, patiently waiting as the two brothers exchanged a short, clipped conversation in Italian that basically asked whether Dean was drying or not. Dean was actually feeling quite the contrary, feeling like he could get up and run a marathon without stopping. He always thought that he relied on his family and friends a little too much, to the point where he drew from their emotions whenever they were around. When they were sad, he was sad. When they were happy, he was most definitely happy. He was pretty sure he had to talk it over with a psychiatrist or something. When Sam finally drew away, his eyes and nose a bit red, Castiel stepped forwards.

He seemed to want to go in for a hug, too, his hands reaching out slightly, but he aborted the gesture, which Dean would’ve been all too willing to accept. The immigrant wanted Castiel to tell him how worried he’d been for Dean, how terrified he’d felt when he thought he was dead, spilling his heart to Dean and in doing so confessing his love for the immigrant and how he wanted to get married in private and go to the orphanage and adopt…

Instead, the ward boss simply stated, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Judging from the gleam in his striking blue eyes, he had a lot more on his mind, but the thoughts apparently never made it to Cas’ tongue as he flashed the two Winchesters a grin and whisked out of the room. It was like visiting the bedridden Italian had been one tedious chore on his To-Do list that he just checked off. Dean’s heart sank, but he didn’t let it show on his face until Sam said goodbye and left with the intention of getting back to work. Only then did Dean’s face fall, and he refused to let himself shed a tear, lest it turn into an emotional rom-drom full to bursting with sexual tension and true feelings and shit. He wished Castiel was a bit more…emotive. Sure, the dude was a politician and had mastered the art of not showing what he was thinking, but could he at least drop the act when they were behind closed doors? It was making it increasingly difficult for Dean to assess whether he was reciprocating feelings or not. It was highly unlikely, but Dean knew that he just _had_ to ask; he needed an answer and soon, lest he spend the rest of his damn days pining for Cas and following around like some lovesick mongrel. The thought of it made him bury back under the covers again, screwing his eyes shut and thinking of anything but that.

 

\----Җ----

 

It was all set up. After weeks of planning (and healing, on Dean’s part), everything was exactly how it should be. Castiel felt butterflies beating their wings frantically within his stomach, and he scurried around once more to make sure that everything was _perfect._ It had to be, if this was going to work. He took in a deep breath through the nose, exhaling through the mouth to calm himself, and then squared his shoulders. This was going to be good, great, even, and if Castiel’s calculations were correct and precise enough, this whole conflict going on in his mind and heart would resolve. He hustled back to the manner, and Brutus and Achilles, who’d been rewarded handsomely for saving Dean and were now allowed to go into the house, seemed to give him odd looks as he practically pranced up the front steps and slipped through the front doors. The two Rhodesian ridgebacks weren't permitted upstairs or in the library, which they soon figured out once they tracked mud and had nearly been knocked unconscious as Castiel cursed them and threw whatever was in his hands, which just so happened to be an English to Italian Thesaurus, at them. He apologized later, but that was the exact reason why he didn’t want them going inside in the first place.

Almost immediately, Brutus romped to his dog bed and collapsed, his old age starting to catch up with him, and Achilles, though more reserved and quite younger, was not far behind him. Castiel chuckled a bit, though he dreaded the day that poor Brutus would pass, and wandered down the hallway to one of the many dens/living rooms that just so happened to be one of Dean’s most frequent haunts. Unsurprisingly, the immigrant was tucked into the couch, having telegrammed Abaddon and telling her that he was taking the month off after the accident, reading a book. It was Charles Dickens’ _A Tale of Two Cities_ , and Dean seemed to be enjoying it quite thoroughly, though his handy dandy Italian to English dictionary lay beside him so he could look up words that he didn’t know.

“‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness-’” he announced loudly, and Dean jumped at least three feet high and gave Castiel a glare that could make flowers wilt.

“I’m on chapter two,” he grunted, placing his bookmark carefully between the pages and then closing the hardcover, putting it off to the side for later use. “Past that part. I have to make sure to tell Dickens here that not all aristocrats are assholes.”

“Why, that’s very heartwarming of you,” Castiel replied, feigning sarcasm, but secretly he felt a rush of warmth for the immigrant, who singled the ward boss out of the normal crowd of money-driven scoundrels that aristocrats were usually portrayed as. “What have you been up to?”

“Nothin’ much,” Dean replied. “Reading. Getting back on my feet. Why aren’t you at work?” he questioned, cocking an eyebrow. They both knew that Castiel could never manage a day off unless there was a dire emergency, but little did he knew that Castiel had been actually saving up his days off and was now cashing them in one by one. Michael wasn't too happy about that, but he grudgingly complied. Originally, Castiel hadn’t even intended to use them; he simply had no need for a day off, excluding holidays and the like. He had nobody to return to at home, nothing to do without work keeping him occupied. He couldn’t read for twenty-four hours straight, and he couldn’t horseback ride, either, lest his butt and thighs be sore for the rest of the goddamn week.

“Oh, I wasn’t needed today,” he replied lightly, not wanting to bore Dean to death with the entire story. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Can’t we ride?” Dean complained, struggling to get up from the couch, and reluctantly allowing Castiel to help him up. The immigrant winced as his stitches tugged at his skin when he moved, and the ward boss frowned, not liking to see the man in pain.

“No,” Castiel told him firmly as they strode towards the entrance, though Brutus and Achilles were too exhausted to follow them. “We don’t want you falling or ripping your stitches. That’ll make this entire thing even worse.”

“Ugh, I can’t be off a horse for this long,” the Italian scoffed as they descended the steps and set off on the dirt trail that was too narrow for horses and had been declared a hiking trail by Castiel, though it was more of a footpath than anything else. “It gives me the jitters. I’m like an addict itching for his next fix.”

“You managed it for a few years, I think you can go a month,” Castiel snorted, resisting the urge to entwine their fingers. Not now. Not yet. Dean gave him the stink eye, but humor and amusement gleamed in the green irises, his smile seeming to light up the forest. They lapsed into a very comfortable silence as they padded through the trees, Dean’s childlike curiosity beyond endearing as he stared wide-eyed at the nature around them. Their footsteps caused the gravel beneath them to crunch and grind, a soothing sound that eased Castiel’s frayed nerves. What if Dean didn’t like it? What if he didn’t feel the same way about the ward boss as the ward boss felt for him? The thought was terrifying, and Castiel’s hands shook as he rolled his sleeves up, pretending not to notice the way Dean’s eyed tracked the movement. Perhaps there were some feelings involved, after all, but he couldn’t be sure until this was carried out. Sam would be home by five, and he needed to make sure he got his answer before then without Sam wandering in at the absolute worst time.

It was a wonderful day, Castiel had to admit. It was warm enough that the ward boss had shed his trench coat and suit, instead opting for a simple button-down and a black vest, with dress pants and shoes to match. Now, if he was still living alone he would just shed his shirts all together, but that was beyond scandalous, and Castiel wished that there was a type of pants that didn’t go all the way down to his feet, because he was boiling. It wasn't uncommon for people to have a heatstroke, and now that the weather was heating up, the EMTs were going to have to work overtime. He had no doubt that some poor women whose dress was too heavy just face planted into the sidewalk in the city right now, though the buildings provided much-needed shade. Still, the horse manure would begin to bake in the sun and…Castiel shook his head clear. The smell was too gruesome to describe.

A chorus of birdsong could be heard in the trees, their leaves rustling as they flitted from branch to branch, chirping merrily. Squirrels scampered this way and that, tearing away faster than the speed of light when they saw Castiel and Dean coming along, and they watched the two men with beady black eyes from their safe place in the trees, their tails fluffing up. Dean seemed fascinated by the squirrels, which were only a nuisance in Castiel’s opinion, but there weren’t any squirrels in Italy. Sure, there were wolves, bears, and even wild goats, but not squirrels. What small things Americans took for granted, though Castiel would gladly have the suckers shipped off to Italy if the Italians really wanted them. They'd send them back soon enough.

“So, what’s our destination?” Dean asked finally, following Castiel’s lead and rolling up his sleeves, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. “The stables? The beach?”

“None of those places,” Castiel replied, grinning, and Dean’s eyebrows shot straight up, the interest plain on his face.

“Then where?” he inquired, his green eyes sparkling, and Castiel knew that if he gave in it would ruin everything, and he didn’t want to mess this up.

“It’s a surprise,” the ward boss told him, smirking when the immigrant’s brows knit together as he frowned. He obviously didn’t like things to be kept from him, but when he opened his mouth to argue, Castiel silenced him with a look. For about ten more minutes they walked, and in his peripheral vision he could see how antsy Dean was getting, his eyes unable to focus on one thing longer for a moment and his hands shoved into his pants pockets. It was adorable how he decided to entertain himself, opting for kicking up the gravel despite the fact that two or more probably would get lodged in his shoes. Castiel tried to hide his grin by biting his lip, but Dean saw and his face lit up like a Christmas tree, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

They were almost there, their destination just around the bend, when suddenly something struck the side of Castiel’s head. He continued on, ignoring the slight sting and singling it out as his body playing tricks, when it came again. Then again. And then again. So not his body playing tricks, then. Another something hit him and this time he whirled to his right, where the assault was coming from, only to see Dean with a handful or gravel, a shit-eating grin on his face as he picked one up and thwacked Castiel on the forehead with it. The ward boss frowned, barely avoiding another piece of gravel, and the Italian cracked up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile too. Dean’s grin was infectious. That’s when they reached the clearing, and the ward boss was thrown for a loop; he’d intended to be paying attention, to start a whole speech he’d memorized to begin the event, and now everything was ruined as Dean froze, staring at the sight before him.

It was a little gazebo nestled amongst the grove, still and serene with a view of the churning ocean. As if in a trance, Dean scaled the steps and ran his hand over the wood, which had been sanded to perfection. It’s taken a long time for Castiel to fix this place up, to go over the chipped and peeling white paint with a new, cleaner layer. He’d replaced old and rotting boards with new ones, had re-shingled the entire roof, and had even placed two benches and a few rocking chairs inside, the benches facing each other and the chairs looking over the ocean. To top it all off was a plaque, engraved with two words:

 

_For Dean_

Dean saw it too, and he looked over at Castiel with an expression between awed and touched, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. The ward boss knew he should say something, knew he should declare his attraction while Dean was looking over everything, but his voice wouldn’t work as he glowed from the inside, watching the immigrant examine the chairs and run his hand over every surface he could reach. Luckily, he didn’t have to start the conversation.

“You made this for me?” he whispered, his voice filled with reverence, as if he were at church.

“Well, I made a few touch ups, but yes, it’s for you, Dean,” Castiel managed, hoping that he didn’t sound too hoarse. “It’s all for you.”

“W-why for me?” Dean asked, sitting down on one of the rocking chairs and watching the ocean with complete and total astonishment written all over his face. It didn’t take long for Castiel to join him in the adjacent chair, pushing a little to rock himself as Dean did the same.

“Because you’re special,” Castiel replied, smiling softly as the immigrant’s eyes continued to stay glued on the crashing waves and the sandy shore. There was a long pause, and one could see the gears turning inside Dean’s head as he mulled things over, and Castiel feared he would get up and leave or, worst of all, laugh and brush it off as a practical joke. He did neither of those things, however, and by the time he opened his mouth again the ward boss was tense all over.

“Listen, man, I have to tell you something…”

“Wait!” Castiel cried, cutting him off. He needed his answer. Needed to formally ask the question before Dean could talk over him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t know what to do. “First let me tell _you_ something.” The immigrant seemed a bit miffed and perhaps slightly afraid that he was cut off, and it was obvious that words were hovering at the tip of his tongue that he was begging to say. Castiel couldn’t let that happen, though, because that risked them getting sidetracked, which would almost be worse than Dean laughing. The ward boss took a deep breath and just allowed his words to flow, unfiltered, from his mouth, “Dean Winchester you are a kind, beautiful man,” Dean’s eyes widened, and Castiel tried to ignore the dread that was beginning to flood his heart, “And I have wanted you since you and your brother stumbled into my office. Now, I know you may not harbor the same feelings, and I hope that this won’t change our relationship if you decline, but-”

“Wait just one damn minute!” Castiel withdrew sharply, hurt. “This is so unfair!” Dean was grinning ear to ear, but the ward boss could only register the pain of rejection. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve done this, maybe it was all a bit mistake. He should’ve expected this- “It’s not fair that you,” Dean jabbed a finger at Castiel, who lowered his eyes to the ground in shame, “get to ask to date me before I could ask you!” The ward boss nearly fell off his chair, rocking a little too violently and almost toppling over.

“You what?” he asked breathlessly.

“I,” Dean pointed to himself, still grinning, “was going to ask you,” he jabbed at Castiel once more, “on a date, but you had to fucking interrupt me before I could ask and then you beat me to it! This is _so_ unfair.” That was it. Castiel broke out into fits of uncontrollable laughter, and Dean was not far behind them. They laughed so hard and for so long that their sides ached like hell and their faces hurt from smiling, but the best part was that they didn’t have to answer. They just knew what the other would say.

And at that moment everything was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited sex scene will be next chapter
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> -Perché ha farsi male? Questa è tutta colpa mia. Ho dovuto tenere un’occhio migliore su di lui, specialmente dopo che l'intero incidente con lui fame da lupi se stesso. Avrei dovuto fare qualcosa per aiutarlo. Ora lui è costretto a letto con una ferita coltellata cazzo nel suo petto e una mascella rotta e non posso aiuto lui. Mi sento così impotente. Inutile, inutile
> 
> -Why did he get hurt? This is all my fault. I had to keep an eye on him better, especially after the whole incident with him starving himself. I should do something to help him. Now he is confined to bed with a fucking knife wound in his chest and a broken jaw and I can not help him. I feel so helpless. Useless, useless
> 
> \-----
> 
> -Fottuto coglione! Ero preoccupato male, ho pensato che stessi per morire! Ho pensato che stavo guardando mio fratello sul letto di morte, che aspettano solo per lui per, si sa, e non avete idea cazzo come molto mi dispiace di non essere lì per te
> 
> -Fucking asshole! I was worried sick, I thought you were going to die! I thought I was watching my brother on his deathbed, just waiting for him to, you know, and you have no fucking idea how much I regret not being there for you


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the only sex scene but it is very minor. The other times it will only be briefly mentioned and described. 
> 
> WARNING FOR FLASHBACK ONTO PROSTITUTION AND FOR SMUT

Sam didn’t like being kept in the dark about things. The happy, goofy grins on Dean and Castiel’s faces were considered “things”. Seriously, the two were all over each other, and Sam was pretty sure he would puke if he was in the middle of any more tender eye lovemaking exchanged from across the room, and he most certainly didn’t want to be amidst the occasional eye-fucking. As far as he knew, they hadn’t gone at it yet, but it was blatantly obvious that that would be doing so soon. And the problem was, _they still thought he had no idea._ Seriously, Sam had eyes as far as he knew, and Dean and Cas still tried to sneak behind his back. Perhaps it was because they didn’t know whether Sam would approve, but he’d been raised by Dean, who was accepting of everything. Therefore, Sam was no different. That wasn’t the entire thing, though. Dean may just want to keep him away from exposure to his…homosexuality? Bisexuality?

He’d been sheltered by Dean for a huge part of his life, completely oblivious to all the gritty side jobs he had to take to add onto his paycheck whilst bartending. John Winchester was nothing but a nuisance, and even though he’d never known the gentle, kind side of him, he couldn’t help but feel glad that his father’s liver gave out after he drained them of more money than they owned. Dean had been so broken up about it, even though he’d only known the gentle side of John for four years, most of which he probably didn’t remember, compared to the decades that he spent drinking himself silly and then passing out.

            Sam had only later learned that Dean had once worked as a garbage man and a cabbie and a laborer and a landscaper as side jobs. There were many more, but the only other one he could think of off the top of his head made him burn up with shame. It was something that he’d rather not dwell on.

 

\----Җ----

 

_“Dean, where are you going?” Sam asked. He’d just gotten back to his first visit with Ruby and was feeling incredibly out of it, though he had to admit that he was enjoying the numbness. A numbness that would soon develop into an all-out addiction._

_“Out,” Dean replied. Sweat was beading on the elder Winchester’s forehead, and he looked incredibly nervous. “We forgot to pay the tax collector and he’s going to be around tomorrow asking for the money.”_

_“Oh,” Sam replied, still in a stupor. “Have fun, then.” It didn’t even cross his mind that Dean was probably going out to earn that money so they could stay in their childhood home. He still felt guilty about that part. Dean only gave him a strained nod before whisking out the door, slamming it behind him. For some reason, the younger Winchester got up, slipped on his raggedy jacket, and followed. Perhaps it was his subconscious that was hardwired to protect his brother that made him do it, because the currently functioning part of his brain certainly wasn't in on why he was tailing his brother at ass o’clock at night._

_His stagger was only just enough to be noticeable, and people parted for him when he passed, but Dean kept his gaze trained straight ahead, which was a blessing on Sam’s part, considering his booze-addled mind didn’t make him much of a stealth expert. Then the crowds began to thin. The cheery, family-owned stores embellished with Italian flags and cartoon images of people using whatever product they were selling faded into boarded up shops whose windows had long since cracked or shattered. Doors were hanging ajar, the insides of the places gutted in obvious raids, and the sidewalk was riddled with cracks. A stray, paper-thin beagle sifted through the trash and gnawed at old chicken bones, paying them no attention as they passed by, and Sam’s stomach lurched as he saw the ribs peeking out from its thin pelt._

_He had to stay actively hidden, now, because Dean, with the absence of the crowds to shield him, was constantly looking over his shoulder, and it was basically a game of red light, green light as Sam ducked into alleyways to avoid being spotted. Then they approached it, the place whose sign had blazing neon letters that were hard to make out in Sam’s slightly blurred vision, but he managed to read it: La Donna Bella._

_The Pretty Woman._

_This was the place that Dean had always told him to stay away from, the place that’d haunted him from the start of his childhood when Dean kept telling him scary stories about all that'd happened there. Drugs, stabbings, shootings, you name it. The mobsters frequented here, and so did whores and addicts. Sam’s breath caught in his throat when he actually saw it in person, and Dean was heading straight for it. What was he going to do? He didn’t understand how getting money could possibly involve La Donna Bella. Sam was safely hidden around a corner as Dean slipped into the shadows next to La Donna Bella’s stoop, and Sam could faintly here the loud voices and the erotic moans coming from within._

_Some scantily clad women were also off to the side, and they eyed Dean like they wanted to devour him, though he brushed off any who tried to approach. It all began to spiral out of control when Dean slipped off his jacket and folded it up, placing it neatly on the sidewalk. The prostitutes giggled and whispered to one another, but it was immediately silenced when Dean began to unbutton his shirt, and Sam almost ran in to stop him. He should’ve run in to stop him. His feet were rooted to the ground, though, as his brother’s shirt hung open, revealing a tease of the rippling muscle beneath. It was utterly scandalous. The girls had the audacity to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ amongst themselves, but Sam’s head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and he could only vaguely process the fear and anxiety as Dean rubbed his arms as the cold nipped at him. Never in his life had Sam seen his brother look so scared, and that fear only heightened when a balding man stumbled out of La Donna Bella and tripped down the steps._

_Sam could smell the booze on him from here, and he turned to eye the prostitutes with a very unfocused gaze. He was by no means unattractive, but he was scruffy and had large bags under his eyes. Like many of the people who frequented this place, he was going through a rough patch. Then his gaze fell on Dean, who squirmed uncomfortably, and even though he was well over the age of adulthood, Sam couldn’t help but see his older brother as a terrified child then, unsure about what was to come._

_“You there,” he said gruffly, the Italian of his words slurred and nearly unrecognizable. Dean practically froze, his eyes wide and his hands trembling. “I got cash….wanna come…inside?” His words were interrupted by various hiccups, and Sam’s face dropped like a leaden ball when his brother only hesitated for a moment but then nodded. He didn’t try to aid the man in staggering back up the steps, but at least the guy was generous enough to hold the door open for Sam’s brother, closing it behind them. It was then that Sam burst into action. He didn’t want to go inside inebriated and make the mess of his life by accidently throwing up on a mobster’s shoes, so he maneuvered around the building, which was only one story, and he was thankful for his height and of the fact that La Donna Bella was at the edge of town and therefore its back wall wasn't covered by another building._

_Sam looked in through the windows, unsurprised that there weren't any blinds drawn, and he saw plenty of things that he wished he didn’t see, including various positions that he didn’t know were physically possible and drug trades between mobsters who he was pretty sure had a big rep for killing anyone who bartered with them. He was about halfway around the building when he saw Dean and the man slip into one of the rooms. Dean looked like a spooked horse, his eyes wild as they watched the man place a glass of what looked like vegetable oil on the dresser. Sam knew exactly what it was for. The two of them talked for a few moments, and the man placed a bunch of coins and bills into Dean’s palm, and from what Sam could make out it had to equal at least four hundred liras. His heart sank as Dean and the man stripped in unison._

_Sam left as that happened, and he didn’t comment when Dean hobbled back inside four hundred liras richer and with a distinct bloodstain on the back of his jeans._

\----Җ----

 

            It was a peaceful day.

            The servants had propped the huge, arching windows open, though they were so large that only sections of them were able to open at a time, and a pleasant breeze wafted through them, carrying with it the smell of forest and the slight tang of the not-so-far-off ocean. Long Island was incredible, and even though it was much colder here, it still reminded Sam a lot of Italy, which he didn’t miss in the slightest. He was happy here, making good money and having a good life, which was so different from those long, agonizing first months before Castiel had decided to take them under his wing. Sam still felt obligated to repay the ward boss for all of his generosity.

            The hearth was empty, but no less warm, and the ashes had been cleaned out by the servants and the charred wood replaced by new longs, ready for use. The animal heads no longer unnerved Sam, though he particularly was wary of the stuffed moose head in the music room that always gave him the shivers. The smell of paper and ink and wood accumulated to form the ultimate library smell, and along with the sounds of turning pages, whispering breezes, rustling leaves outside, and soft breathing, Sam felt like he was in Heaven. He’d already learned so much from Castiel’s library, though the ward boss had assured Sam that some of his siblings’

Balthazar had just distributed glasses of wine to all of them as a treat, and it was sweet but not too sweet, which was just how Sam liked it. Sure, it wasn't wine from Italian vineyard, but it was pretty damn close. Castiel casually informed him that his property did have a vineyard and that this was wine made from the grapes grown there. It struck the Winchesters as a shock that they’d been living there and they still hadn’t explored all of the property. Sam made a mental note to remind Cas to give them a more formal tour…except he couldn’t do that right now, because he and Dean were locked in a staring match that was full of emotions and lovey-dovey stuff, romantic promises and the like that set Sam on edge.

“Okay, guys, enough!” Sam announced from his seat in the library, throwing down Upton Sinclair’s _The Jungle_ and glaring at Dean and Castiel, both who seemed startled at his sudden outburst. It was Sunday, and for most of the morning they’d been lying around like lumps, reading, eating, talking, and on occasion playing _Lo Giuoco del Lotto D'Italia_ , which is basically the origin of Bingo. It’d been a bit boring, but the secrets of the meatpacking industry that Sinclair was revealing to Sam made him want to go vegan, and he was pretty sure he’d tell Dean to read it later in order to improve the Italian’s eating habits.

Speaking of whom, Dean gave his brother a quizzical look, his brows knitting together, but something akin to anxiety twinkled in his brother’s eyes. Castiel regarded him with mild curiosity and caution from the place where he’d fallen on the floor and had simply refused to get up, mumbling about how it was too much work, so he just lay on the carpet with a chair on top of him. It would’ve been hysterical had Sam not been at his wit’s end. He was absolutely, one hundred percent done with these two.

 “I know, okay? I know. So will you two get a fucking room and stop with all this bullshit.” Castiel literally fell off his chair, grunting as he hit the floor, and Dean choked on his own saliva, a big gob of it dripping down to make an incriminating blotch on page 334 of _A Tale of Two Cities._ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Balthazar smothering his laugh with a cough, covering his mouth with a gloved hand as his eyes crinkled.

“Wow, way to put it bluntly, Sammy,” Dean chuckled, though his voice was strained and he was regarding his brother with a fearful look. There was a long pause where nobody did anything, except Balthazar who shot Castiel a look and the ward boss grudgingly reclaimed his seat. “You’re not…mad or anything, right?”

“Yes, I’m mad,” Dean’s expression fell and Sam saw the expression his older brother usually wore to fight back tears; blank, unfeeling, “But only because you guys tried to hide it from me for so long.” The elder Winchester’s head shot up, his eyebrows raised so highly that they were nearly brushing his hairline, and Castiel barked a laugh, though there was much relief contained within it. Sam smiled softly as his brother’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He liked to see his brother happy. Truly happy. It was a moment to behold; the way Dean’s green eyes twinkled and he grinned showing teeth, which was a rare occurrence. He exchanged a look with Castiel that was so tender Sam felt like he was intruding on something, so he rose to his feet, taking _The Jungle_ with him.

            “I’m going to read outside in the courtyard,” Sam announced. “Don’t try to take advantage of it or anything.” He gave Dean a suggestive wink and the immigrant flushed beet red, and it was only until he was out the door with Brutus and Achilles at his heels (Castiel had made it mandatory for anyone walking alone to be accompanied by one or both of the dogs after the whole nativist issue) did he break out into fits of laughter. He took a mental picture of Dean’s mortified face and stowed it away to bring it up at later times, which would hopefully make his brother just as flustered as he was now.

 

\-----Җ-----

 

            To say that Dean was nervous was a huge fucking understatement as he smoothed out the wrinkles in the bed, bustling about like the worrywart he was. Sam had been disappointed when informed him that no, they didn’t have sex when he was outside, and he’d complained that he’d had to sit on an uncomfortable stone bench for nothing. Castiel had suggested that they take advantage of Sam’s offer, but Dean had turned him down. They hadn’t had sex yet. Just kissed, and Dean can’t say that his experiences with men have been pleasant.

 

\----Җ----

 

            _“How do you like your hair being pulled,_ bitch? _” the guy snarled into his ear as he keeled over Dean’s back, fucking him with abandon as he yanked on the immigrant’s short, light brown locks. He couldn’t stop himself from letting out a strangled sob, which the man apparently interpreted as pleasure and managed, impossibly, to fuck harder. It hurt like all hell, burning and spiking knives of pain being shoved up his hole. With only a thin layer of vegetable oil (hey, they couldn’t afford the stuff that people dubbed “lube”. It was supposed to be for medical reasons but nobody really used it for that) slicking the way, the thrusts were too dry, and it was no surprise when he felt something warm and sticky begin to drip down his thighs, and the sharp metallic scent of blood permeated the air._

_He let out a garbled mess that could’ve been “Stop” but it was unrecognizable. Hey, at least he couldn’t see the guy, but that small blessing was outweighed by the agony of the situation._

Doing this to keep the house, _Dean chanted in a litany as tears fell to the disgusting covers on the bed._ Doing this for Sammy.

            _It seemed like hours before the man’s thrusts began to stutter and he came with a groan, gripping Dean’s hips so tight they’d probably bruise in the morning, and the elder Winchester, helpless, could only follow him over the edge._

\----Җ----

 

            No, he couldn’t think of the nameless guy with the booze breath. He couldn’t think of the agony as he hobbled home with the sorest ass he’d ever had, even worse than the worst case of saddle sore he’d gotten from riding Impala all day when he was younger. He couldn’t think about that knowing look in Sam’s eyes when he came home, the way that he just _knew_ what had gone on in that skanky place even though he’d been all boozed up and hadn’t given a shit when Dean had gone out. He couldn’t think of the way he had to slip into the washroom to clean up. He couldn’t think of the way he'd cried himself to sleep, the cheap mattress and sheets feeling awfully like the ones at _La Donna Bella._

            He shook his head clear, stilling his trembling hands. This was Cas. Cas wouldn’t hurt him, not for the world. Cas pulled him and his brother from Hell and brought them to paradise, and he wouldn’t suddenly turn merciless in the sheets. He diverted his attention to the small list of preparations he'd made on a scrap of paper, the words in scrawling Italian, which was the language he usually thought in and found was easier to write. Candles? Check. Rose petals? Check. Sure that Sam had fallen asleep in the library? Check.

            Castiel was going to finish his work (he’d had to do some papers, even on Sunday), and then he’d come upstairs to his master bedroom to find Dean waiting for him. Dean, who was flushed bright red and was panicking more than he should, pacing around the room like a caged tiger. He wondered if this was too extravagant for the first time, what with the petals and stuff? Didn’t the first time just happen? Should it really be forced like this? Was he pushing it? Maybe Dean should go change into pajamas. This was all just a waste of time. Cas was probably tired and he wouldn’t want Dean interrupting with his silly antics. He’d be kind about it, but he’d decline, that’s what any normal person would do…

            Footsteps. Down the hallway.

            Dean’s breath caught in his throat and he furiously checked over the list again, making sure that everything was perfect. Maybe this was how Castiel felt when he'd fixed up the gazebo for him, and Dean was pretty sure his heart was going to beat out of his chest as he plucked at the sleeves of his silken robe, which concealed what was underneath. Dean was almost positive that Castiel could hear his blood roaring from outside, hell, it could probably wake Sammy up from his snoring in the library, but he couldn’t back down. It was too late for that. Now, he wasn't saying that he didn’t want to take the next step because he _really_ did and it was all so overwhelming and he was pretty sure-

            “Dean?” came a gravelly voice that sent shivers racing up and down the Italian’s spine, and he glanced around wildly once more to make sure that everything was _perfect._ “Dean is that you?”

            “Yeah,” his voice was but a breathy whisper, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, but that could just be from the Special Surprise that was driving him insane. The doorknob turned and the barrier between Dean and Castiel was slowly opening up, Dean’s heart fluttered with both excitement and dread.

            “Dean are you alri-” Castiel stopped dead. He was in his grubby trench coat and suit, his blue eyes widening in awe as he took in the room. Candles were placed in strategic places to help him with mood lighting, and he'd gotten the gardeners to help pluck the best of the roses, amusement twinkling in their eyes. Dean swallowed hard as he slowly closed the door behind him, locking it carefully. It was just them now. The two of them. Dean and Cas.

            The ward boss’ eyes traveled around the room, and his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You did all this?”

            “With help,” Dean mumbled, fidgeting where he stood, right in front of Castiel’s canopy bed. Cas’s eyes zeroed in on the small container of slick that’d been strategically placed on the nightstand, but then his striking blue eyes finally fell on Dean, who was in a too-big silk robe that he’d found in the ward boss’ closet whilst snooping (which he wasn’t at all guilty for). Castiel quirked an eyebrow at Dean, who took a stuttering breath and let the covering fall from his body, shivering as the material ghosted over his skin and pooled on the floor around his ankles.

Castiel was slack-jawed, and he didn’t say anything at all, just stared at Dean, who was immediately was discouraged. Why wasn't Cas saying anything? Was he disgusted? He immediately began to cover for himself, “I get it if you don’t want to-” Cas covered the distance between them in two quick strides, pushing a finger to Dean’s lips before the Italian could say more.

“I think you look beautiful,” he whispered, and Dean flushed a shade that was usually reserved for tomatoes, but he immediately perked up when he saw the look in Cas’s eyes. It was raw and tender, but also sparkling with delight, excitement, and a bit of nervousness. “You’re ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean replied, his voice still small and shy. He began to wring his hands in front of him. “Um…I’m not the most experienced…”

            “Are you sure? I don’t want you doing this just because I suggested it earlier today after Sam left,” Cas replied. “I just want to make sure you’re happy and that it’s good for you.”

            “Okay, pulling the ultimate cheesy line here, but I’m good as long as you’re with me,” Dean replied, and the two of them, as if drawn together by an invisible force, melted into one another.

 

\----Җ----

 

            “Could you guys keep it down next time?” Sam asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, kids, always use protection! Protection was uncommon in the Progressive Era because people didn't really use birth control and they weren't really aware of STDs. They did have methods, but that would involve using an animal intestine/stomach as a condom. Gross.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating, I'm having severe writer's block on this story

 

He shouldn’t’ve thought it would last. He was so happy. So gut-wrenchingly happy to wake up in Castiel’s arms with nothing in between them. The days afterward were spent languidly lovemaking when they weren't at work, much to Sam’s disgust, and Charlie even called them out as she complained that there was absolutely no vegetable oil in the kitchen. Despite this, everything was perfect. He hung out with his brother, whispered soft ‘I love yous’ to Cas, and was surrounded by horses when he wasn’t with them, which was the second-best thing that could happen. He and Ellie became great friends, enthusing about their favorite tack companies and the like, and Dean had even revealed a bit to her about Impala, despite the fact that he’d never told anyone besides close family.

That fateful morning was no less perfect than all of the others. He’d just got home from work, stinking of horse and uncaring of the irked look Sam threw him as he went upstairs. “You smell like literal shit,” his brother complained. He did this every day, and his eyes sparkled with amusement, though his lip curled as he wrinkled his nose at the smell. He was lucky that Dean had left his boots in the hall and hadn’t tracked feces into the house, which he’d done before but when Castiel saw he went berserk. Cussing so terribly sailors would blush, he threw whatever what was in his hands at the moment (which just so happened to be an incredibly heavy English-Italian Thesaurus) at Dean and made the immigrant clean up his mess. Even with the follow-up scrubbing from the maids, the main hallway reeked of horse for days, and Castiel had to cancel a very important meeting with a Governor because whatever they did they _couldn’t_ mask the scent. Dean had had to sleep on the couch for those days, but not once did he feel a shred of guilt.

“I don’t smell anything,” Dean replied with a shrug and a mischievous grin, shrugging as Sam flipped him off. The immigrant scaled the stairs and padded down the hall to his room, and thankfully the servants had long since caught on with Dean’s schedule and had a bath already filled for him, steam curling off the surface as the water slowly cooled. Stripping down and tossing his clothes into the hamper, Dean carefully lowered himself into the tub, sighing as the water soothed his taught muscles and caressed his skin gently. He could barely imagine his life before coming to live here, but he knew that he probably would still be working for Alastair and not caring for prized stallions and mares. It certainly meant he wouldn’t be bathing every day, which was just disgusting, and he wrinkled his nose at the thought.

Castiel was still at Tammany Hall, filing papers and doing politician stuff, and Dean missed him dearly even though he knew he’d be back in a few hours’ time. The ward boss felt terrible, unable to find another job that paid as well as this one, and Dean suggested that he try Wall Street; positions were available and they made loads of money off of the stocks. The immigrant was surprised when Cas gunned him down, shaking his head and telling Dean that the people at Wall Street never had a few hour in their life. They worked from seven a.m. to seven p.m. and sometimes even longer than that, and Dean was warmed inside when he realized that Castiel was turning down and incredible job because he wanted to spend more time with him and Sam. It was very righteous of him, but Dean was beginning to worry. If he didn’t find a new job soon, he’d be in big trouble; the Progressives were rising up, beating back corruption with a club, and even though it was great in the long run, all ward bosses faced arrest as the reformers pointed fingers at all the money that was going in their pockets that should be going into getting immigrants better living conditions. Dean shivered at the thought of Castiel being thrown behind bars, and maybe with Meg as their spokesperson they could let him go free with a warning. In every situation Castiel would be jobless, and nobody would want to hire him for fear of being lashed out at by Progressives.

He fretted over the situation as he toweled himself off and slipped into his everyday clothes, watching as the sun descended towards the horizon through the windows of his room. He found Sam inside the library, per the norm, and joined him in his reading. He’d moved on from _A Tale of Two Cities_ and was now just starting Sinclair’s _The Jungle_ , upon Sam’s insistence. Needless to say, it made Dean want to go vegan and never again eat meat; the things described in the meatpacking process made him want to hurl 24/7, so he usually refrained from reading the book when it was close to a meal. Instead, he picked up a newspaper, plopped down onto the plush chair adjacent to Sam’s and began to read the cover story.

 

**_THE NEW YORK TIMES_ **

_New York, Thursday, July 16, 1914_

**AUSTRIA-HUNGARY PREPARES FOR WARFARE:**

**ASSASSINATON OF ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND MAY TRIGGER A WORLD WAR**

 

_If you haven’t had time to read the paper yet, then here’s a brief summary of the events leading up to Austria-Hungary troops mobilizing. On June 28, 1914, Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, heir to the throne, and his wife, Sophie Chotek, were assassinated as they toured Bosnia-Herzegovina. Ferdinand had been attending military exercises while Sophie attended schools and orphanages to watch over the children. They were just arriving in Sarajevo, Bosnia-Herzegovina’s capital, riding inside an open-topped car as their motorcade sped towards city hall, when the shots were fired. Both Franz Ferdinand and Sophie went down to the bullets of Yugoslav nationalist Gavrilo Princip._

_Since Princip was a Serb, and there had been much political unrest between Austria-Hungary and Serbia over the past several decades, Austria is preparing for battle. People are unsure of when they will officially declare war, but it_ will _happen and it will happen soon. Most estimate that it will be exactly thirty days after the assassination, in twelve days’ time on July 28 th, and the United States government has refused to offer any details. We know that, once Serbia and Austria-Hungary go to war, their allies will follow in suit and thus provoke total war in Europe, though our country is planning to remain neutral in the entire matter. People are calling upon citizens to buy stocks now, since production rates will skyrocket as soon as Europe falls to this Great War, but many are frightened that this savagery will migrate to the US._

_Have no fear, but in case we do become involved in these foreign affairs, make sure to follow these simple steps to survive warfare…_

Dean closed the newspaper and threw it down more viciously than he’d intended, unable to read any more of it. Sam gave him an odd look but it pretty soon melted into sympathy when he saw how distraught his older brother was.  

“Are they going to have a draft?” the Dean whispered, running a hand over his face

“Perhaps,” Sam replied grimly. “But we’re going to stay out of it. We’re going to remain neutral and that will be that. No war. No nothing. Just business as usual. But, if worse comes to worst, I hope that our affiliation with Castiel gets us out of it.”

“We can’t do that!” Dean cried. “It’s unfair to everyone else that we can get out of a draft just because we know a rich guy. It’s like a legal version of draft dodging.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, but I’m not keen on getting ripped away from my family to go die in a trench somewhere as my comrades burn around me. It’s not that I’m not willing to serve this country, I am, but I want to do it on the home front,” Sam replied firmly his brows knitting together as his eyes darkened. He had a white-knuckled grip on the nameless novel he was holding, and Dean feared that his brother’s meaty paws would tear the poor book in half. The immigrant could only agree with Sam’s words, though; he’d never leave his family willingly, never abandon them on a mission that might send a flag back instead. Even so, the mere fact that he was agreeing with this made him feel like a coward, because he was. Every day, men went to enlist of their own free will in order to serve their country, and Dean was just lounging back in the lap of luxury while they slaved away overseas. People would call him out on the fact that, since he was an immigrant, he was taking it all and not giving anything back to the country he’d moved to to start a better life. They’d say that he needed to earn his rightful place in America, and Dean could do nothing but assent, because he’d be lying if he said otherwise. He shoved those thoughts to the side for now, but in doing so a whole other set of horrible ideas stepped forwards.

The impending warfare was looming over Europe like a dreary cloud, casting shadows upon places that were normally bathed in light, and Dean shivered as thoughts of carnage and explosions and gunfire invaded his head. He tried to distract himself by reading the Jungle, but that only added nausea on top of the anxiety, which was a deadly combination. He chose other books off the shelves, but he read the words and didn’t absorb them; it wasn’t until he was on the fifth page of a nameless romance did he realize that he had no idea what was going on or who the fuck Lizabeth and Flavio were. He wandered the house aimlessly for a while, trying to entertain himself in any way, shape or form without his mind wandering to much darker places. For once he didn’t feel like going to the stables; he’d been around horses all day and had just taken a bath. He didn’t want to soil his new clothes and then have to go back to the house to take _another_ bath.

He was jolted out of his musings by the _pap pap pap_ of nails clicking against the floor and looked up to see Achilles, his tail held high and his longue lolling from his mouth.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean cooed, kneeling down so that the Rhodesian ridgeback could snuffle at his face and give him a lick or two. “How ‘bout a walk to the beach?” At the mention of a walk, Achilles’ tail went from zero to eighty miles an hour as he barked his agreement, and Dean chuckled as he patted the old dog’s head. The commotion had Brutus lumbering over, with Bee’s tiny little feet not far behind, and Dean decided to take them all out, despite the fact that Bee never ventured outside except to relieve herself. After shuffling through a cluttered drawer, he finally found Bee’s leash, and she was jumping up and down in her anticipation as he clipped it onto her collar, her beady eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Balth, I’m taking the dogs out!” Dean called to no one in particular, but the butler was always hovering about and no doubt had heard him. “See you in a bit.” As soon as the door was opened a crack, Achilles zipped out like the peppy elder he was, while Brutus remained by Dean’s side as they descended the huge marble stairs and started down the path towards the beach. The war was, thankfully, at the back of his mind as he watched Bee’s little propeller feet try to keep up with the big dogs, and he grinned as Achilles tried to get Brutus to chase him but with no luck. The one-eyed dog was down-to business, and Dean gave him a little nudge. “C’mon, have a little fun,” he chided, and the dog just gave him an unamused look that sent him into a fit of laughter.

The immigrant was glad that the nature trail wove through the trees, since it had to be at least eighty degrees outside, and the foliage provided excellent shade. Birds tittered in the trees, and Dean had to marvel at the sheer amount of them. There was the fleeting chirps of the sparrows and the mournful cries of the crows, and it all created a beautiful dissonance that eased the tension in Dean’s shoulders. There was a pleasant breeze from the north that came from Long Island Sound, and it helped contrast with the heat of the summer; the sun beat down upon everything and everyone, and there were no clouds in the sky to smother it occasionally, and Dean nearly threw up when he thought of how the city must smell right now.

Poor Cas.

His thoughts drifted to the ward boss, and he smiled softly at the thought of the way his beautiful blue eyes crinkled when he grinned, or the way he’d give Dean little gifts that would have no value to others but had value to the immigrant; flowers that he’d liked when they were taking a stroll together in the garden, one of Amara’s horseshoes, and even the occasional shed deer horn that he found along the property. All of these trinkets had accumulated within Dean’s room, which he rarely slept in anymore since he preferred to sleep in Castiel’s, and whenever he looked at them or even thought of them, a warm feeling pulsed in his heart.

He passed the stables and waved to Jesse Turner, who was hosing down a very bubbly Falabella pony that Dean recognized as Sully, who couldn’t’ve been more than eight hands high and was used by Anna and the servants’ children to ride. Bee yapped a greeting at him and he whinnied a jovial reply, tossing his head and getting water all over the place, much to Jesse’s disgust. Dean chucked as they continued towards the beach, Brutus finally perking up as he romped around with his tail head high, and Achilles darted in and out of the bushes, chasing squirrels halfheartedly only to discover that Bee was more susceptible prey. The two big dogs were surprisingly gentle, Dean realized, and were careful not to crush the little Yorkie under their huge paws as they played well within the reach of the leash. Bee seemed perfectly capable of following Dean without it, but the immigrant was pretty sure Cas would be upset if he found out that Dean had left her in the dust and lost her, and he shivered at the thought of another Thesaurus being thrown at him.

The trees began to give out, being replaced by large shrubbery, and eventually that bled into smooth, sandy dunes. It was very bright here, and without the cover of the trees for shade, Dean was boiling under his slacks and button-down shirt. Like he’d done many times before with Cas, he took of his shoes and socks and rolled up his sleeves, grinning and unclipping the leash to watch Bee scramble to catch up with the Rhodesian ridgebacks as they leapt in the surf. He was careful to make sure that the poor Yorkie wasn’t knocked into the waves on accident by the rough play, but it was low tide and he didn’t really have to be worried about her getting clobbered by the sprays.

He lounged back on the sand, uncaring that he hadn’t brought a blanket to sit on and was getting sand into his clothes, and smirked as Brutus tossed Achilles like a ragdoll into the water. The old dog yelped in delight and paddled about for a few moments before riding the waves back in, incredibly fit and lively for his age. Bee yapped and leaped up, only reaching their flanks when she did so, but she seemed to be having the time of her life as her nearly come fur became drenched and tangled, matted with sand. It was comical.

Seagulls cried overhead and circled, unsure of where to land as the three rowdy canines romped this way and that. It was so peaceful that Dean nearly fell asleep, but that was when the gunshots sounded. They were distant, a mere _pop pop_ that he would’ve ignored otherwise, but they were still there.

Immediately, Brutus and Achilles were on high alert, every muscle in their bodies taught, and then they began to bay a warning, low howls that rose above the sound of waves crashing. Dean was on his feet in mere moments, scooping a trembling Bee into his arms as he was ushered towards the path by two furry bodyguards, and the Yorkie snuggled against Dean’s chest as they raced down the path. Brutus and Achilles were off like bullets, their ears pricked as they continued to howl an alarm that the servants were hopefully following. Dean’s feet ate up the ground as the huge mansion loomed head, its windows glaring down at him as his heart roared inside his chest. He couldn’t help but feel guilty about pulling the dogs away from their posts, but then again if they’d scented the intruders before they would’ve been adamant to turn around and forget the beach. Perhaps the shots had occurred just outside the property? Dean didn’t want to find out.

He took two steps at a time as he propelled himself to the door, clinging to be like a lifeline, and he slammed on the knocker, looking through the windows on either side as he received no answer. Fucking hell; the procedure was to not let anyone in or out of the house, and Sam was probably worried out of his damn mind, as Dean desperately tried to get the door open.

“Balthazar! It’s me, Dean!” Wrong thing to say; anything could be possible, and Dean may be held hostage and told to get the servants to open the door at gunpoint. His mind consumed by fear, he raced to the only other place he thought was safe, darting back down the trail as Bee quivered in his arms. Jesse was just closing the gates to the stable when Dean broke across the cobbled yard, and the stable boy’s eyes widened as the immigrant waved the arm that wasn’t holding Bee and yelling. He was adamantly allowed inside, and he saw all the stable hands clustered together in a tight group, their eyes wild and their expressions fearful as Jesse closed the gates and locked them from the inside.

“Dean, brother, are you okay?” came a familiar voice, and Dean finally let out the breath he was holding as the familiar leathery smell of Benny consumed him, the big teddy bear of a man wrapping his arms around the immigrant and soothing him considerably.

“I’m fine,” he replied in a breathy voice, stroking Bee and attempting to calm her. “I was at the beach with all the dogs when the first shots rang out. What do you think’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but it ain’t good,” Benny replied grimly, he turned to the huddled group of stable hands that had to be at least fifteen strong, not including Dean and Benny, and announced, “We have a Code Red breach of the property. It might be Progressives, it might be Nativists, but whoever comes has to know that we won’t go quietly.” The group nodded, and Dean’s stomach dropped when he saw some young boys, no older than Jesse, scattered amongst the group and gripping the pant legs of the senior workers. “If things get bad, we fight, but right now we shouldn’t act stupid. I want half of you to huddle in different stalls, your back right behind the gate, so if they check quickly they won’t see you, and the rest go up to the hayloft. Dean, can you help get all the horses off of the crossties?”

“Sure thing,” Dean replied firmly, handing Bee off to Jesse and taking off down the stall-lined path and towards the very confused-looking horses that were strung up, waiting to be groomed and/or washed. Bela tried to nip at him when he unclipped the crossties from her halter, but he gave her a warning slap to the neck as he led the Arabian back into her stall, and only then did the mare seem to grow slightly worried, as she should be. Benny took down Cupid and Eve while Dean tackled the task of untacking the huge Shire, which one of the servants had been planning on riding right before the shots sounded, but luckily the huge draft horse was friendly and went obediently back into his stall. He tried not to stare as Amara regarded him critically from her spot on her stall floor, now very heavily pregnant, and merely bid her farewell as he set off at a brisk pace after Benny who was ascending into the hayloft.

“I think you should stay down here, brother,” the stable hand told him as he approached, and he looked rather…sad. “Make sure the horses are safe.”

“Of course,” Dean replied, puzzled, as Jesse handed back Bee and then ducked into Sully’s stall, much to the Falabella pony’s delight. Most of the kids were going into the stalls, with a handful of adults, but not everyone could go or else whoever was raiding the place would begin to look more closely into he stalls if they found a lot of people hiding there. Dean gave Benny a clap on the shoulder, who grinned in reply and ascended the stairs to the hayloft, and took off down the hall. Most of the gentler horses were taken, and Dean really didn’t want to deal with Bella the bitch or Amara’s grumpy pregnancy hormones. He opted to get in with Samuel Colt, who gave him an odd look as Dean crouched with his back against the gate, and Dean feared that the Mustang would be too infatuated with him and would alert the intruders of Dean’s presence on accident.

Colt, thankfully, only sniffed at him and Bee, who let out a squeak of alarm at the gentle giant, for a few moments before returning to nosing at the hay. And then the entire stable fell silent. Everyone in the hayloft settled into place, and nobody dared to breathe. The horses seemed to sense the fear seeping from everyone, and some of them began to whine in alarm, pacing about their stalls, but Colt set a prime example as he carried on business as usual. Dean had never been religious, but he said Hail Marys and Our Fathers and any other prayer he could think of as the deadly silence set his ears ringing. He wrapped his arms around Bee, whose little heart fluttered against his, and tried to ease her trembling, though hit was hard to do so when she could clearly feel his heart slamming against his ribcage. He breathed in the smell of the sea on her fur, uncaring that his shirt was growing damp, and just tried to ease his fear. The next step in the procedure for a breach was to call the police with the new telephone that’d been installed, and hopefully they showed up before things could get bad. Only they did.

“Alright, fuckers, come out come out wherever you are!” a deep, gruff voice echoed throughout the stables. Dean’s blood tuned to ice as he recognized the sound. It was the voice of the leader of the gang that’d jumped him, and apparently he had company. He began to tremble as mocking catcalls and jeers were dispelled into the stables, and the air seemed to grow ten degrees colder. He was nearly killed by these men. They were armed and dangerous, judging by the tinkle of knives clinking together and the sound of guns being cocked.

“You can come to us and live, or you can stay hidden and loyal to this pussy Castiel Novak. In that case, we’ll shoot you if we find you,” came another voice that Dean also remembered from the attack, and Bee began to lick his face as his heart began to beat impossibly faster. “Come out or we’ll shoot all your fucking horses.” There was no reply, and Dean was so glad that nobody stepped forwards; it was obvious that these guys wouldn’t let them live. They’d shoot them either way, and now that his terror was severe, Colt began to whine. Luckily, many of the other horses were whickering anxiously, the sound of them pacing permeating Dean’s ears. He hated the sound of the horses’ panic, but he could do nothing but sit and wait, helpless. He could only pray that Samuel Colt didn’t give away his position.

"Fine, have it your way,” was the only warning before a gunshot rang out. The scream of a horse echoed through the stalls as every equine spooked at once, and now Dean realized that he was in danger of death at Colt’s hand. The Mustang shrieked and reared up, his eyes wild and his ears pinned as he stampeded in his stall, kicking against the walls and narrowly missing Dean’s crouched form. And then it wasn’t just horses screaming.

Tears leaked from Dean’s eyes as he hunkered down and waited for it to be over.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don;t worry, I have not forgotten about this story! I've been having terrible writer's block, though, and need to get the ideas flowing. I would've published this chapter as it was, but I decided to brave my writer's block and edit the hell out of it and add a bunch of stuff so you guys wouldn't have to read garbage

When put together, the group of nativists had slaughtered thirty before the combined effort of guards and police was able to shoot them all down.

Eleven people.

Eighteen horses.

And one dog.

All of the horses were cremated, their ashes scattered on the beach, and two of those eighteen horses had been Amara and her foal, who would never be able to be born as Castiel watched the wind carry away the remnants of what had once been a mother-to-be. For the humans, a mass funeral was held two days after the shooting, in order for the families to visit and stay with their loved ones before they were put in the ground. The carriages that weren't damaged by the nativists were taken from storage and draped in black, carrying them all to the nearby cemeteries. None of the people killed had lived their lives long enough. There were no senior works killed, no people who’d already lived life to the fullest; there were only young adults. People who’d just married and had children, and Castiel found it difficult to remain stoic as a widower wept over the headstone of her husband. He’d just completed his tour in the military a few months ago, and they’d only just been reunited after three years…

Castiel shook his head clear, grinding his teeth together while the Portuguese immigrants watched on with concern as he furiously filled out the forms needed to complete their trip to the United States. He'd been getting less and less immigrants coming to him lately, what with Raphael suddenly deciding that he should cover both Eastern and Southern Europeans. Since he was black, he had the minority vote, and now on top of that he had more immigrants to rally for him whilst simultaneously taking votes away from Castiel. It was a shitstorm to say the least, and the ward boss could clearly see the shadows that lay ahead, promising misfortune. He plastered on a fake smile and, finally, directed the immigrants to Gabriel’s in perfect Portuguese with a reminder for them to vote for him in the next poll. It was so corrupt. So very corrupt. He needed a new job fast, one that could support his mansion and the salaries of everyone that worked there. He knew all of his staff personally and was well aware of the fact that most of them were using their pay to support their families; without it, they’d fall to poverty. He couldn’t possibly fire any of them without finding another job for them, and that took precious time that he didn’t have.  

They’d just walked out the door when Michael burst inside, his tailcoat billowing out behind him like some sort of cape. His hair was neatly styled, his blue eyes glittering, and he had a respectable scruff going on that made him look more like a model than a politician. All the commotion in Castiel’s hall (which had become considerably less lighthearted now that he’d cut down on the bar maids and on the amount of alcohol available) seemed to cease as the top-of-the-notch politician made his way over to Castiel’s desk with the ward boss’ secretary, Hannah, in tow. She was carrying a gigantic stack of papers, which were dumped unceremoniously on top of the work that Castiel was already doing.

“Novak,” Michael announced, his face stoic as he adjusted his tie, which was unnecessary considering that it was already pristine. Castiel rose to his feet and shook his hand, though the tension hung so thick in the air that you could cut it with a knife. Everyone in the hall was silent, watching the confrontation with rapt attention. Castiel was sure that some of them were raring to see a fight but unwilling to voice it, considering he would suddenly find that he had a lot more taxes on his hands for some odd reason.

“What brings you here, Michael?” Castiel asked, his voice polite but his tone implying that he was willing to defend himself it came to violence in both the word form and the physical form.

“Thank you for letting me borrow your secretary, by the way, but I need all of these papers done before you leave,” Michael told him evenly, the glint in his eyes absolutely wicked.

“All this?!” Castiel exclaimed, trying to seem calm, but he was eying the pile of work with a growing sense of dread. “But it’s nine o’ clock already! It’s going to take hours…”

“Well then you best get to it,” Michael snapped, his voice cold, and whisked out of the hall as fast as he’d come. Castiel swallowed hard, collapsing back into his seat and taking the first piece of paper off the top of the pile, reading it over and groaning. He didn’t think he had enough inkwells in storage to accommodate all of this paperwork, and he sighed, running a hand down his face. He was exhausted, but he had to soldier on. He needed another job, but he couldn’t find one while he was working this one. Maybe he should get Balthazar to poke around, but he didn’t think he’d have enough energy to ask him when he got home.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” Hannah asked, her expression pitying, but Castiel waved her off with a shake of his head. Alcohol would dull the boredom, but it would make the whole process take longer, and he needed to get home. Back to Sam. Back to Dean especially.

Castiel cracked his neck, muttering, “Let’s do this.”

 

\----Җ----

 

A 12;34 a.m., Castiel staggered out of his taxi, payed the driver, and hobbled up the stairs towards the front doors. He was delirious from exhaustion, his hands cramping horribly from all of the writing and filing he’d done, and his stomach wailed, having gone completely empty over an hour ago. He was welcomed back into the house by Balthazar, and he had a word with his butler about the severity of the situation, and how he had to get a new job quickly before he worked himself into the ground. He tried to ignore the concerned look that his lifelong friend cast him, but he couldn’t help but compare it to the look someone would give a dead man walking. In some cases, that was completely true.

The normally buoyant atmosphere of the manor had fizzled out, replaced by an overwhelming grief. It hung thick in the air, plaguing the servants as well as who they served. The brightly patterned curtains had been taken down, replaced with black to honor those who’d died, and there was a memorial beginning to take shape at the base of a large oak tree to the direct right of the manor. Love letters from widows, both men and women, and dozens of bouquets of flowers. Their sickly sweet smell reminded Castiel of his losses constantly whenever he got home from work and the wind carried the scent over to him.

Sighing, the ward boss took off his hat and hung up his overcoat, which he’d only brought with him in order to be proper; the summer heat was doing nothing to lighten the moods of the people in the manor, but luckily the night air was at least slightly forgiving. Immediately, he took to a bag of dog kibble that had made its home by the doorway and filled the small cup that was already inside. His heart heavier than an elephant in his chest, he walked over to Brutus, who was curled up motionless on a dog bed meant for two, and forced the dog’s mouth open, pouring the kibble down his throat, along with a small glass of water. The dog’s head was limp when Castiel dropped it, and he knew that Brutus wouldn’t be surviving much longer. It was clear that if he buried one, he would bury another as well. For a few moments he stroked his dog’s ears, mourning how his Rhodesian ridgeback’s fur, once glossy, was now dull, but that was nothing compared to the lifelessness in Brutus’ one functioning eye, and Castiel knew that Achilles had been a part of the big dog, a brother, and now that part was gone. Bee tried to cheer him up constantly, without much success, and he could feel Brutus slipping away from him. First his horses, now his dogs. Things were dying without having to fall under the nativists’ bullets.

Dean was hovering by one of the staircases, Bee cradled under one arm, and Castiel knew by the look on the immigrant’s face that they were going to have to have a talk again. He would’ve done anything to try and get out of it, but there was already so much stress that was heaped onto their relationship. He didn’t need more added on top of that. His head bowed, he shuffled over to where Dean was standing, stone-faced, and waited for Dean to dish out whatever he needed to dish out.

“You stayed overnight again,” the Italian said softly, and Castiel refused to meet his eyes. “Cas, look at me.” He obeyed and looked up to see stern green eyes glaring at him critically, and he withered under the stare. Bee sensed the tension that hung in the air, wriggling out of Dean’s arms and padding over to curl beside Brutus, who didn’t acknowledge her in the slightest. “Cas, you can’t keep doing this.”

“I know, I know,” Cas sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “It’s just that Michael keeps heaping on the work and I can’t get out of it or I’ll lose my job.”

“Then find another one,” Dean stated firmly. “I barely see you. Color me selfish, but I think you need to set aside a little time for me if we’re going to keep this up. You can’t just keep working and working. You work when you’re upset. The shooting was disastrous, I know, but you have to get past this!”

“Do you think I have a choice?!” Castiel bellowed, hating how Dean flinched back a little. “How do you _ever_ assume that I wouldn’t put aside every single second of every day for you? How do you think I could stay away from you for so long of my own choice? Is that what you think of me?!”

“Well, yeah, as of right now!” Dean shouted, and now they were all-out screaming at each other. Hurtful words flying through the air as Dean demanded more from Castiel, who yelled how he didn’t have any more to give. People filed past silently, their expressions sympathetic as the two argued and argued. It was like this every night, and Dean eventually ceased trying to get his point across and threw his hands up in the air, storming up the stairs. Castiel heard the door to his room slamming all the way from downstairs, and he forced the tears back as he stomped off, seeking a place of respite. He needed to sleep, desperately, but he also had to get away from everything for a while.

Normally, Castiel and Dean slept in the same bed, spooned together and happy, but these days it was a miracle if Dean slept in Cas’s room at all, and the bed felt so much bigger and emptier. Loneliness clawed at his gut as he retrieved a small plum from the icebox, ignoring Charlie’s attempt to try and talk to him, and let his feet take him wherever they wanted to. The world was crumbling around him, and he was powerless to stop it. His friends were dying. His horses were dying. His dogs were dying. It was all a fucking shitstorm. Hell, even Artemis and Achilles tried to cheer him up, and he was pretty sure that those two cats hated his guts at every time of the day except feeding time. He found himself in the living room, and to his disappointment he was not alone.

“How was work?” Sam asked, trying to sound lighthearted. It was late, but Sam was a natural night owl, though these days it was just because he couldn’t get to sleep. The whole dilemma was clearly weighing heavily on him; there were shadows under his eyes and his hair was unkempt, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and Castiel was aware of just how much he’d been panicking when he found out that they couldn’t let Dean inside the house. The immigrant never spoke a word of what happened in the stables that day, but Castiel knew that he’d been hiding in a stall with Samuel Colt, who’d been one of the horses to die. He and Bee were now impossibly close, though, and now that he and Dean were at odds with each other, he almost never saw his Yorkie anymore, since she preferred Dean’s company over his.

“No less awful than usual,” he ground out, collapsing on the couch next to him. He wondered what Sam had been doing before he'd gotten here; he didn’t seem to have any reading material with him, and there was no music playing or anything. Perhaps he’d just been sitting, staring off into space. Castiel found that he was doing that a lot, and wouldn’t be surprised if Sam was feeling it as well. “Michael is deciding to be an extra douche and dish out even more work than usual, and Raphael is killing me according to the polls. I need to campaign really badly but have absolutely no time to do it.”

“That sucks,” Sam sighed, looking down at his hands. “How’s Brutus?”

“Still terrible. I’m hoping he’ll straighten back up, but…” he trailed off, shaking his head. There was no hope for Brutus and he knew it. After the loss of Achilles, who sacrificed himself in order to give a young stable boy a chance to run, there was nothing that was really tying that dog down to Earth with everyone else. Why do that when he could be frolicking in the clouds with his blood brother, chasing angelic squirrels to their hearts’ content without any worry of obligation or injury? It sure _sounded_ a helluva lot better than Earth. Because of Achilles, no children had been killed, and a chill went down Castiel’s spine when he realized that the nativists had been all too willing to kill even the youngest of the employees.

They made mindless chatter that sounded all too empty to Castiel’s ears, and he eventually excused himself to go up to bed, since the time was late and he really had to sleep so he would be energized for work the next day. He stopped by Dean’s door and knocked softly, like he did every morning and every night, and, as usual, no one came to the door despite the sound of shuffling sheets.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

There was no reply.

Castiel walked on.

That night’s sleep was fitful to say the least, plagued by nightmares of Dean kissing other, faceless men who actually had time to dedicate to him and ghost dogs chasing him through a forest of mangled trees, and he jolted awake with the sounds of their baying still echoing in his ears. He was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the sheets tangled around his legs from all the thrashing. His throat was parched, and without a doubt he knew he’d been crying out in his restless slumber, though when he finally dressed and descended the stairs for a quick breakfast, nobody seemed to want to comment on it. Dean was there, sitting on the opposite side of the table with some of the servants, and Sam gave him an apologetic look as he was forced to take a seat much too far away for the two of them to sustain healthy conversation.

Castiel would’ve joined him, but he didn’t want to have to deal with all of the discomfort, and perhaps, in a grand gesture of rudeness to show Castiel just how he felt, Dean would get up and walk away to dine elsewhere. He didn’t want to deal with that. So he ate breakfast with Balthazar, and his butler, excitedly, told him that the CEO of a well-known real estate company would like Castiel as his partner to appeal to more people, the pay nearly double of that of his current job, and the ward boss was so relieved that he didn’t care that he knew jack shit about real estate. He sent Balthazar off with a letter addressed to Joshua to tell him that yes, he would love to join him, and he couldn’t wait for the reply. Sadly, though, he had to get to work.

He rose from the table excusing himself, and bid farewell to everyone. Dean didn’t look up from his food, which was barely touched. He lingered for a moment, considering giving him a goodbye kiss, but decided that it would be unwelcome.

And with that, he was gone.

 

\----Җ----

 

As soon as the front door closed, Dean was yanked from the table and dragged to the nearest vacant room by a very angry-looking Sam.

“Sit,” Sam ordered through gritted teeth and, reluctantly, Dean sat down, crossing his arms and not caring that he looked like a sulking child. “I don’t know what your problem is, Dean.”

“I have a lot of problems,” the elder Winchester replied absently, but his voice grew hard, “And I’d pretty damn well appreciate it if you didn’t poke around in them.”  Sam tried to catch his eye, but he averted his gaze to the ground, having a pretty good idea of where this conversation was going.

“Well, too bad because I need to know why you’re being so hard on Cas,” Sam snarled, everything about him screaming ‘not happy and willing to punch you until you don’t know your name’. Dean’s head snapped up, and he was astonished to say the least.

“What are you saying?” he asked, puzzled, and it was like he’d flipped a switch and all hell broke loose.

Sam threw his hands into the air, pacing like a caged tiger, and whirled on Dean, his eyes blazing. “What am I saying? _What am I saying?!_ ” Dean would be lying if he said that he didn’t flinch back a little at the ferocity in his brother’s tone. “I’m saying that you’ve been treating Cas like a pile of shit!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up,” Dean made a time out gesture with his hands, and Sam reigned himself in a little, though he still looked like he was about to explode with the amount of words that were at the tip of his tongue. “You’re telling me that _I’m_ treating _Cas_ wrong? When the guy doesn’t even have the time to pay a little visit?”

]“See?!” Sam shouted, and Dean shrank in on himself a little. The younger Winchester towered over him from his seat on the couch, and he wanted to get up so at least the space between them would be mostly filled, but he didn’t think that Sam would like that as he continued to rant, “He busts his ass and makes the vast majority of the money in this house! His boss is a dick and makes him work ridiculous hours and do tons of work, and he always talked to me about how excited he is to come home to us! To _you_!” Dean felt so much guilt heaped on top of him that he thought that he was going to buckle under the weight of it all. “And he finally gets home and you tell him that he has to quit work, which, by the way, would be disastrous for this household, so he can spend time with your selfish ass! He’s trying so hard to keep you happy, Dean, and you’re throwing it all back in his face!”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Sam cut him off, “You say that you want him to spend time with you, but now whenever he walks by you ignore him! How can he do what you want if you want nothing to do with him?!” They lapsed into silence, and Dean pursed his lips into a thin line as Sam finally seemed to run out of steam and collapsed into a nearby chair with a heavy sigh. Dean stared at his folded hands as if they held the secrets to the universe and withered a little as he felt Sam’s critical gaze boring into him. He decided that yes, he was being a dick to Cas, and even though he did deserve more time with him, it wasn't fair that he demanded Cas to fix the problem when he was already drowning in a tremendous workload.

“I’m going to make it up to him," Dean announced, rising to his feet, and a ghost of a smile flickered across Sam’s face as his brother nodded in agreement.

“Go get em’ tiger,” he chuckled, and Dean flipped him off before collecting Bee and whisking out to the garden.

 

\----Җ ----

 

Castiel stumbled back into the house at the usual time, so tired he thought he was going to fall down, but he was still elated when a letter arrived from Joshua telling him that he'd start up his new job in two days. He couldn’t wait to tell everyone, and was glad that Balthazar had given in all his credentials so they wouldn’t have to meet for an interview. He tossed his coat and hat in the general direction of the coatrack and knew Balthazar would tidy it up later, and when he looked up to see Dean standing there expectantly, he steeled himself for the upcoming fight.

“Listen, Dean, I’m sorry-” He was astonished when Dean pulled him into an embrace, and Castiel hesitantly wrapped his arms around Dean’s middle, something that he'd wanted to do desperately since the shooting happened.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Dean mumbled into his neck, and even though all the windows were thrown open in an attempt to try and help with the heavy heat of night, he relished in the warmth that was Dean and pulled him tightly against his chest in case he might disappear. “I missed you too, but I can’t breathe,” Dean wheezed, and Castiel quickly let go, stepping back and grinning like a fool. His own expression was mirrored on Dean’s face, and this was the happiest he’d seen the green-eyed man in a long while. “Balthazar told me after I got home that you were switching jobs.”

“Indeed,” Castiel replied, preening a little, and Dean punched his arm lightly. “Less hours, double the pay, and a higher position. It’s real estate, so I’ll miss trying to help people, and I can’t imagine what crooked man is going to take my place for Southern European immigrants. It’s better in the long run, though, because the Progressives are coming down on Tammany Hall. Everyone is brushing them off, but they don’t know how much power they have on their side. Woodrow Wilson will be signing something any day now that bans the practice and gets all of them turned to the streets.”

“That’s great!” Dean cried, giving him a fleeting hug and bouncing on the balls of his feet a little. “Where’s the office?”

“It’s a little farther away so I have to leave earlier, but that’s a very small price to pay since I come home earlier,” Castiel replied. “It’s closer to Wall Street.” Dean whistled.

“Wow, that’s far.” The worry was clear in his voice.

“Calm down. The hours are so short that I’ll be coming home at around eight or nine,” Castiel explained. “Most of that is going to be the trip to and from, but there’s a smaller office that’s closer that he may assign me to in the future, but for now we’ll have to deal. I mean, it’s still a little over twelve hours, but it’s better than getting home at twelve o’clock and being exhausted. I can assure you that Joshua is a good man and won’t work me to death.” Dean chuckled and took Castiel’s hand, about to go upstairs and retire to the bedroom, when suddenly a low, gruff bark stopped them. The two turned slowly to see Brutus struggling to get out of the dog bed, with Bee trying to help but instead making it more difficult. Den and Castiel exchanged a glance before rushing over, helping the dog get to his feet and surprised to find his tail rappelling this way and that, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

As Dean went to go fetch the dog some food and water, Castiel couldn’t help but feel that everything was perfect. Sure, the world was terrible and he still had to suffer two more days of work, but he had Dean and Brutus back and that was all he really needed. He didn’t know what made Dean have a change of heart, or what made Brutus decide that life really was worth living, but he really didn’t care.

That night, Castiel fell asleep spooned around Dean with two dogs practically lying on top of them.

Yup, life was pretty damn good.


	17. Chapter 17

             “ _Alzarsi! Alzarsi! Alzarsi!_ ” was Castiel’s rude wake-up call. The ward boss sat bolt upright, lunging for his revolver in his drawer and thinking that the nativists were attacking, but when he realized that the loud voices were the Winchester brothers yelling in Italian and the “gunshots” were them slamming pots together, he slumped back and groaned, rubbing his head.

            “ _Alzarsi, Castiel, Alzarsi! Oggi è un giorno grande!_ ” Dean cried, tossing his pots to the floor in order to drag Castiel out of bed. Apollo and Artemis, who’d lingered at the threshold to see just what the hell was going on, yowled and tore away as Sam and Dean shoved him out of the bedroom and down the hall. The blue-eyed man let out another groan as he was hustled down the stairs, only vaguely aware of the fact that he was still in his nightwear and it was incredibly embarrassing. The trio was met by Brutus, who was barking loudly enough to wake up the entire mansion as his tail propelled back and forth, and the big dog romped behind them as Castiel was led towards the kitchen, his claws clicking on the polished floor.

            “Ugh, what time is it?” Castiel complained, his eyes-still half-lidded as he tried to rub the sleep out of them. He took a glance at the windows and saw that it was dark outside, but the odd thing was that all of the servants seemed to be up already, including Balthazar. “What’s happening?”

            “It’s about twelve o’clock in the morning,” Dean announced jovially, grinning like a madman. “Today is officially your first day of work! As for that other question, you’ll have to wait and see!” All of the candles were lit as the Winchesters steered Castiel this way and that, and the ex-ward boss knew that this was very uncharacteristic behavior of the Winchesters; if they could sleep in, they damn well slept in, and Castiel had never, ever seen them so coherent at such a time of the day.

            He shouldered the Italians’ hands off of him, feeling alert enough to be able to walk by himself, and at that moment he realized the state he was in. He was still in his night clothes, which was super embarrassing, but at least he had managed to grab his robe on the way out to cover at least part of the onesie-like outfit. His hair was probably beyond mussed, and his breath probably didn’t smell all too great, yet despite the man’s protestations, the Winchesters refused to let him slip away and put on some actual clothes.

            He was about to put his foot down, was about to get agitatd, when suddenly they stepped into the dining room and Castiel’s mouth dropped open. The table was adorned with delectable-smelling foods that made the ex-ward boss’s mouth water uncontrollably, and with a little more enthusiasm than necessary he took his seat at the head of the table.

            “ _Benvenuto, Castiel Novak!_ ” Dean welcomed, clapping his hands together as the servants began to trickle in and take their seats, eying the food hungrily. “With the help of Charlie, Sam and I have created a special breakfast to celebrate your new job!” Castiel really inspected the food and found that all of it was at least slightly of Italian origin, and by God did it smell like a fucking treasure. “We used out madre’s recipes to create the meal before you.”

            As people began to heap their plates, Sam told them what everything was, “We made a whole bunch of madre’s _fette biscotatte,_ ” Castiel took at least three slices of the cookie-like, rusk hard bread, most likely salivating visibly, “You also have some coffee and some bread rolls with butter and jam. There are also some cookies, too. Normally, we wouldn’t have this big of a breakfast in Italy, but we’ll make an exception for today.” The Winchesters had to rush to get their fair share as the servants took as much as they could possibly fit on their plates, and everyone began to unceremoniously dig in. The moans were pornographic as people tasted the delectable Italian cuisine, and Sam and Dean smiled around their mouthfuls as Castiel had a foodgasm, shoveling as much food into his mouth as he could. It was _so good._

            “Oh, and just an FYI this was mostly Charlie’s doing. We just supplied the recipe,” Dean announced over the excited babble of voices. “I cannot cook and neither can Sam. We suck.” Everyone laughed, and Castiel loved the way Dean preened and smiled under the praise of everyone. It was a stark contrast from the struggle they’d been having not four days ago, and Castiel was truly glad that this new job was going to give them more time to spend with each other; he made it his mission to get Dean to smile at much as possible.

 

\----Ω----

 

            Dean absolutely loved his job and no one would be able to tell him otherwise. He and Ellie were getting along great, and together they enthused about the horses at the stable and debunked all the employees who they knew only did it for the money and not for the animals themselves. They picked favorites, with Ellie’s being a strapping young Welsh pony gelding and Dean’s being, of course, a Friesian stallion. The two had playful banter about whose horse was better, the debating sometimes turning serious as they listed all of the pros of their horses and all the cons of the other horses.

            It was Dean’s lunch hour, and after thoroughly mucking out the stall and changing the hay bedding, the immigrant lay down in the Friesian stallion’s stall and let the horse nose and lip at him. He was a privately owned horse, so technically if Dean ever wanted to buy him he couldn’t just go to Abaddon, but the owners rarely ever came and Dean found the higher-ups pleading for him to take the horse out for a good romp every once in a while. The immigrant hated people who bought horses just because it made them look rich, and then once they bragged their fill about how beautiful their horses were and showed everyone they could possibly show, they left them to rot in places like this, where other people could care for them but never truly give them the affection that they needed. It was selfish, really.

            “What would you think if I asked your owners if they would like to sell you to me, huh?” Dean prompted, and the horse, called Empire State of Mind but Empire for short, made a grunting sound that could’ve been affirmation, though he was much too entranced with the buttons on Dean’s shirt to really give a straight answer. There was also the fact that he was a horse and most likely didn’t understand what Dean was talking about. “I could take good care of you. I’ll make sure I buy you myself so Cas doesn’t have to get involved, and you can be mine. How does that sound?” He stroked the soft black hairs on the horse’s cheek, rubbing behind Empire’s ears.

            “You done fantasizing, yet?” Ellie asked, and Empire looked up at her for a moment, ears twitching and big brown eyes curious, and Dean seized the opportunity the get up and slip out of the stall before the horse started harassing his shirt buttons again. Empire let out an offended snort when he realized that Dean had left him, but got over it soon enough as he began to nibble at the new hay bedding. Brushing straw off of him, Dean grinned like a madman and he and Ellie set off to nowhere in particular. “You really like empire, don’t ya?”

            “Yeah,” Dean responded sheepishly, wringing his hands slightly. “I’ve always been into Friesians.”

            “I won’t pry,” Ellie stated, “But Abaddon wants to see you. She said it was important.” The stable hand turned to Dean, her eyes sparkling. “I think she might promote you.” Dean’s heart leapt and drooped at the same time; promotion was great, it meant that there was more money involved, but that also meant that Dean wouldn’t be directly working with the horses, and he wondered if the extra few bucks was worth being miserable at his job. She clapped him on the back, and with a murmured, “Go get em’, tiger,” she left Dean at the doorstep of Abaddon’s office.

            Dean swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck as he ascended the stairs, all jitters. He should accept the promotion. It would make his, Sam’s, and Castiel’s life easier if he took it and was done with it, but he thought of the awfulness of Alastair’s job, the monotony of it, and decided he needed to get all of the details before he truly made his decision. He knocked on the door exactly four times before a smooth, sleek voice stated, “Come in.” His heart flying, Dean slipped inside to find Abaddon sitting primly at her desk, her hair tumbling over one shoulder in a cascade of red. “Dean Winchester?”

            “That’s me,” the immigrant replied, trying for a smile but getting a grimace instead. “I was sent here by another stable hand.”

            “Indeed,” the woman replied, her eyes glittering like shards of ice. “Please have a seat. We have big matters to discuss.” Dean slowly sat in the chair across from hers, feeling uneasy at the sheer vibe of “predator” that she was giving off. Abaddon was elusive and rarely seen, and Dean had personally never encountered her. In his opinion, he never wanted to ever again.

            “So, what are we going to talk about?” Dean prompted, trying for humor, but that’s when Abaddon flashed a wicked smile and then Dean was crossing his eyes to look down the barrel of a rifle she’d produced from under her desk. The immigrant opened his mouth to yell for help, but huge arms seized him from behind, a hand clamping over his mouth.

            “The nativists, including myself, would like to have a word with you. And your little sugar daddy, too. Good thing we already got him.” Pain exploded in the back of Dean’s head before he could register her words, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lateness and the shortness of this chapter. Writer's block was killing me.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> orry for the little to no warning, but this is the last chapter. Writer’s block on this story has been absolutely crippling, so much so that I haven’t even looked at this story until two days ago. By the way, I toned down the sex scene to keep this story T.

 

 

**_THE NEW YORK TIMES_ **

_New York, Tuesday, July 21 st, 1914 _

**IMMIGRANTS UNDER ATTACK: HATE CRIMES SPREADING LIKE WILDFIRE THROUGHOUT THE TRI-STATE AREA**

New York City has been known to be a place of acceptance; being the home of Ellis Island, this sprawling metropolis is home to people of every different race, color, age, ethnicity, religion, and skin color. Every day, its ports bring in a new batch of immigrants ready to make their homes in the United States. However, the accounts of New York City being accepting is growing increasingly false as gangs and white supremacists begin to show their faces. In the South, the KKK rages, and even though it is safer up north, that doesn’t mean that everyone is safe from the atrocities that groups like the KKK are doing.

            There have been several reports of immigrants being lynched, and there has yet to be any suspects. So far, there have been twelve cases in all of people having emigrated from their country only to be violently murdered in the name of America. There is no specific target on a certain ethnicity; the victims have varied in religion, origin, and gender as well, however all of the victims were, indeed, immigrants. Most of the families of the victims stated that they did not want their names or the names of their deceased relatives to be put in the paper, however there were two victims that had no families to speak of, both of which had come to America alone.

            Esperanza Céspedes, a widower from Spain, had only been in America for two months before she was murdered. Working as a seamstress, she’d been on her way to the American Dream when her life was brutally taken from her. Isabel Ureña, a coworker, was sent to Esperanza’s house when the Spanish immigrant hadn’t shown up for work, and was horrified to find the door to her tenement ajar, having been nearly ripped from its hinges.

            “It was awful,” Isabel tells us through her tears, “She was hanging from the ceiling on a hook that was meant for a small chandelier. There was a stool under her that was kicked over, like someone was trying to pretend that it was a suicide, but it clearly wasn’t.” Despite the alleged suicide, authorities concluded that Esperanza was, indeed, murdered, having been stabbed in the abdomen multiple times before being strung up on the ceiling. The stool that was kicked over did not have any boot marks on it, and hadn’t even been stood on at all, considering how it was meant for sitting.

            The next victim was a man named Quinten Nakken, who’d originally come from the Netherlands. This man had worked at a car manufacturer, and had been coming home from work when he’d been assaulted and eventually strangled to death by an unidentified group of men. A witness who wishes to remain anonymous has stated that all of the men were white, and that, though their clothes were ragged, one of them was wearing a very expensive-looking gold watch. Quinten was then dragged into the alleyway, where the witness interviewed came and found him dead. 

            The funerals of these two people will be held next Saturday, and it is suggested that people attempt to show support as Ellis Island tries to see if they had family back in their home countries.

            “This should not be happening,” preaches the up and coming politician-turned-real-estate-agent Castiel Novak. “America is the land of the free, the home of the brave. What these people are doing is making sure that this land is not safe for those who are free and those who are brave, and I want to tell them that they are not being the heroes that they think they are being. This hatred, this cold-blooded murder, is not what this city, or this county, for that matter, needs. What we need is respect for one another, and it doesn’t matter if you’ve been born on this very ground or have intentions to call this ground your home. As long as you have legally stepped onto American soil, you are an American and should be treated as such!”

            There have also been reports of kidnappings throughout New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, and though there have been no bodies recovered, police suspect that those who’ve been taken will not be coming back in one piece. These nativists are on a rampage, and the problem is that President Woodrow Wilson is too preoccupied with political reform in the Soyth and handling the KKK that he can’t afford to be concerned with hate crimes such as these.

            If you are an immigrant, it is suggested that you watch your back at every turn. These people are out for blood, and it doesn’t matter if you have three kids and the cleanest record of all time; they will find you, and they will kill you. Stay safe, people of New York.

 

\----

 

            _Dean slowly lowered the newspaper, and he and Sam exchanged a grim look._

_“That could be us one day,” Sam murmured._

\----Җ----

 

Dean awoke to darkness, but not the darkness that was associated with the absence of light; no, this was the darkness that was associated with something covering your eyes. Dean could, faintly, see a warm yellow glow that was smothered by what seemed to be burlap, and his heart leapt into his throat as he realized that he couldn’t move his hands. The stench inside of what seemed to be a sack that was pulled over Dean’s head, was awful, like moldy vegetables and stinky socks all rolled into one, and he would’ve covered his nose if he’d been able. He had a splitting headache, pain exploding inside of his skull like fireworks whenever he moved his head, and even when he was sitting still, his head throbbed.

            “Sam?” Dean called out, despite the fact that the sound made his skull feel like it was being crushed. His voice, however, was nothing but a harsh rasping sound that nobody could’ve heard, even if they’d been standing directly next to him. “Cas? Anyone?” The memories of the recent events slowly trickled back to him, and his breath began to saw in and out of his lungs. The nativists had him. He’d read the article, he knew what they were going to do; he would be lynched and would swing by his neck by the docks to scare off other immigrants and make them get right back on the boat from which they came.

            Dean froze up as he heard creaking and heavy footsteps, which must've signaled someone coming down a rickety set of steps, and a gruff voice announced to the people upstairs, “He’s awake.” A shadow blocked what little light came through the burlap, and in one swift motion the sack was yanked from Dean’s head. The immigrant blinked rapidly for a few moments to adjust to the blazing of the lantern above him, and quickly got his bearings of his surroundings. He was clearly in a basement of sorts, what with the stone brick walls and the prominent stink of mildew, and was accompanied by the leader of the nativist group that had attacked Dean beforehand. It was a face that had haunted the Italian in his nightmares, and he couldn’t help but tremble a bit. There was no sign of Sam or Cas, which was possibly a good thing, but then again, it could mean the worst.

            “Mornin’, you heap of pond scum.” The man spit on Dean’s shoes, and the immigrant swallowed hard, wanting to kick out but finding his ankles tied to the legs of the chair. He was well and truly trapped, and he wasn't going anywhere without this man’s say-so. “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt ya. Well, not yet.” A bead of sweat made its way down Dean’s temple, and a few other sets of footsteps could be heard descending down the stairs. “If you behave, we just may let you off with just a good beating.” The tone in the man’s voice made it blatantly obvious that that probably wasn’t going to be the case, and Dean could already feel the noose around his neck.

            “Hello there, Dean Winchester.”

            Dean’s blood turned to ice in his veins as he came face-to-face with Alastair. The immigrant’s former boss grinned, and Dean wanted to vomit at just how unnecessarily dressed-up he was, as if he wanted to flaunt his money in front of Dean and gloat to him just how much richer he was. His lapels were made of gold, his cufflinks imbedded with diamonds, and his suit was tailored and made of an inky blackness that was unnatural and difficult to look at, making it seem like it was sucking in all of the light around it. Abaddon was hefting her lavish skirts, eying the dirty floor with disgust and obviously not wanting to get the hem out her outfit soiled, and when she looked up at Dean, her expression didn’t change. It was as if he was just as gross as the floor, and the immigrant took incredible offense to that, though he really didn’t think that he’d be able to voice his complaints without getting a fist to his gut.

            “So, as you already know, we have both you and your…what did you call him, Abaddon?”

            “Sugar daddy.”

            “Ah, yes. Well, we have both of you in our custody. You two aren’t going anywhere, and, if you wanted to know, I plan to shoot you and cut you up into little pieces. I’m still debating whether I should feed the pieces to my dogs or ship your sack of meat and bones to the doorstep of Castiel’s mansion so your poor excuse of a brother can see it. I’ll decide on that later, though.”

            “And Cas?” Dean demanded, trying to sound strong, but his voice quivered a little. What did he ever do to deserve this? Yes, he would already be dead when they started to divide him up like some sort of roasted chicken, but at least with the other victims there had been bodies to bury. Dean just might go down the gullet of some hungry mutt. The immigrant shuddered as he imagined Alastair combining the two things; feeding Dean’s cut-up body to Achilles and Bee, and maybe to some of the horses and the cats. Would they know it was Dean, or would they eat it anyway because food was food? “What will you do with him?”

            “Ransom,” Alastair growled, the corners of his lips tilting upwards into a chilling sneer. “His family is filthy rich. They own half the ports on the East Coast, and they’d be more than willing to pay whatever it takes. He _is_ the son with the most power, after all; the pride and joy. His brother Samandriel is a D-list politician, his other brother, Gabriel, I think, is an atrocity working as a tenement owner, and his only other sibling is a whiny bitch of a woman named Anael. It would be a shame if my boys and I just shot him, killing the only Novak son with any sort of potential. Things would be a whole lot easier if we just did that, but then again, I’d be a whole lot less rich.”

            “But you’re already living comfortably in the upper class! I can understand if someone wanted the money if they were broke, but you?” Dean shook his head, disbelieving. He was just starting to brush the surface of how greedy men could be, and it made his hands tremble a bit in his bonds.

            “Do you understand debt, idiot?” Alastair snarled, prowling over like a big cat ready to pounce.

            “Yeah, with great help from you,” Dean snapped. “You think I could get by on those meager paychecks?”

            “No,” Alastair replied simply, and Dean swallowed hard. It wasn’t even like Alastair was guilty about it. He didn’t care that Dean and his brother had been struggling to pay rent, didn’t care that Dean had nearly starved to death. Granted, he probably didn’t know about that last part, but then again, Dean wasn’t entirely sure if Alastair would even feel remorse over that. “But, I’m a problematic gambler. Do you understand what that is?”

            “I’m an immigrant, not deaf,” Dean scoffed, but his snarky façade crumbled a bit as the nativist man began to charge forward but had to be restrained by Abaddon.

            Alastair continued, “Well, I gambled more than I could pay, and now I’m several million dollars in debt to the gang leader Azazel. He has contacts scattered all over the city, and he’ll have my hide if I show my face in public. I need to pay him off.”

            “My heart bleeds,” Dean told him blandly, shocked when he was slapped across the face. Alastair’s ring had bitten into his skin, and now blood was trickling down his cheek and soaking into the collar of his shirt.

            “You’re so insolent. The world will be a better place without you,” Dean’s former boss hissed, and with that, he, Abaddon, and the other man ascended the stairs, leaving the immigrant to wonder whether he was going to make it to tomorrow.

 

\----Җ----

 

            “They should be back home from work by now. Both of them,” Sam fretted as he wore a path into the floorboards with his constant pacing back and forth. Achilles and Bee watched on with slightly concerned looks as Sam ran his hands through his hair, and Balthazar looked no less troubled than Sam felt.

            “I’m worried about them, too, but perhaps they wanted some alone time,” the butler supplied helpfully. “A date, perhaps?”

            “They would’ve sent a telegram ahead,” Sam replied, shaking his head. “They know how dangerous it is out there, and they know that we’d be worried sick if we didn’t get word of their whereabouts.” Balthazar didn’t have a halfhearted counter-argument this time, and he stood by with an expression that was slowly becoming more and more worried. The dogs seemed to sense their mounting anxiety, and they rose from their bed to rub up against their legs in an attempt to comfort.

            Finally, the butler supplied, “Maybe they’re both being held late at work.” He sounded unsure of himself.

            “This late? When have their bosses ever done that? I think I should go check up on them, in case something’s happened,” Sam decided, his face setting with determination.

            “And go out alone?” Balthazar asked, his eyes narrowing. “I think not. Do you _want_ to be lynched?”

            “I’ll take Achilles with me,” Sam replied, already shrugging his coat on. “Maybe Benny, if he’s up for it.” The Italian immigrant threw the door open and the slightly chilled, crisp summer evening air drifted over the threshold. He whistled and Achilles bounded out the door, and before Balthazar could object, Sam was off into the night, slamming the door behind him.

            He jogged down the winding path towards the stables, and the feeling of _wrong_ settled in his gut. Something was going on, and it wasn’t because Dean and Cas were being held late for work. No, this was something much worse. Achilles bounded ahead, occasionally looking over his shoulder to check if Sam was still following him, and finally they reached the stables. A warm glow from the oil lamps came from within the building, and Achilles ducked inside, with Sam hot on his heels.

            The stables always had a soothing atmosphere to them. There was quiet except for the sound of Sam’s footsteps, the clicking of Achilles’s claws, and horses shuffling around their stalls and nosing through the hay. Bones, Sam’s unofficial favorite, nickered a greeting and poked his head out, but Sam couldn’t pay him any heed just yet. There were more pressing matters at hand than a desire for carrots and treats. “Benny?” Sam called, softly enough that it wouldn’t spook the horses but loud enough that he stable hand would hear. “Benny!”

            “Sam?” Benny clambered out of one of the stalls, which had a wheelbarrow filled with fresh hay beside it. The stable hand grinned. “How’ve you been, brother?”

            “There’s no time to talk,” Sam panted, and rested his hands on his knees, still out of breath from the run. “Dean and Cas aren’t home yet. I’m pretty sure they’re in danger.” The easygoing smile melted off of Benny’s face, and without a word the two of them set off at a brisk pace to the tack room, leaving Achilles to idle by the door.

            “What makes you think that they’re not out together for a romantic evening of some sorts?” Benny inquired as he took Bela’s bridle from its hook and selected her saddle from the rack, while Sam did the same for Bones’s things.

            “A hunch,” the immigrant replied. “They would’ve telegrammed us if they’d been going out together or had been kept super late at work.”

            “I can only agree, brother.”

            The two of them had their horses tacked in record time, despite the fact that Bones had given Sam a hard time with the bridle and had used the human’s height disadvantage against him. Then they were off, cantering down the trail as fast as they could go without leaving Achilles behind. The Rhodesian ridgeback, despite his old age, was incredibly fast.

            “It’s ‘cause Master Novak used to take him hunting all the time. He hunted lions, too,” Benny explained over the roar of the wind in their ears as they flew down the path. Sam, despite his inexperience, managed to stay on the saddle even though he felt like his stomach was back at the stable.

            The ride to Purgatory Range didn’t take that long, and they quickly dismounted and brought their horses to a hitching stand so they could investigate without having to keep a hold on the reins. Immediately, Achilles was on high alert, and without warning the dog darted towards what seemed to be the main office, and Benny and Sam had no choice but to follow. The dog raced up the steps and began sniffing under the crack in the door, whining and scratching at it, though the lights inside were off. Luckily, Sam had enough sense to keep his lock-picking tools in his coat, and Benny raised an eyebrow when the immigrant produced them from his pocket.

            “I’m pretty sure that’s ten kinds of illegal, Samuel,” Benny chided, but there was no heat behind it as the lock clicked and the door slid open slowly and silently.

            “Is there an oil lamp somewhere? It’s too dark,” Sam murmured, his heart in his throat as he regarded the roiling blackness beyond and wondered what horrors could lay inside of it. The images of ghouls and demons that were dancing in Sam’s vision dissipated as Benny, after a few minutes or so of fumbling around, managed to find a lamp and light it. They looked around the office, which didn’t seem all that out of the ordinary. There were neatly stacked papers, stationery like ink and notebooks, amongst other things. That’s when Benny turned and his eyes widened. Sam followed his gaze to see a small bloodstain on the floor. It wasn’t old, but it wasn't fresh, either.

            Sam and Benny exchanged a look.

            “You think Achilles can track him?” Sam asked, kneeling down and brushing his fingers over the dark, rust-colored splatter. Benny shook his head, his expression grim and his fists clenched at his sides.

“They probably loaded Dean into a carriage; the scent’ll be lost,” the stable hand responded, stroking his beard in his aggravation. They had no choice but to ransack the room in an attempt to find any sort of clue that would lead to where Dean was being kept.

“I think I found something,” Sam announced as he held up an envelope that had been neatly opened beforehand. Benny came over, setting down the horse figurine that he’d been studying and probably considering stealing. He held up the lamp as Sam pulled out the paper in the envelope to reveal a letter from none other than Alastair, who’d instructed Abaddon to bring “the package” to his factory after hours.

“It’s not much, but it’s something,” Sam breathed, his eyes raking over the loopy cursive of Alastair’s signature, hoping to find something that would hint that Dean was “the package”. “And what about Cas?”

“One thing at a time, brother,” Benny stated, something like hope sparkling in his eyes. He ushered Achilles out the door and stood at the threshold, looking over his shoulder at Sam with a wolfish grin, “Now, let’s go investigate, shall we?”

 

\----Җ----

 

            “Stamp your seal or I’m going to pump you full of lead,” a voice growled off to Castiel’s right. The former ward boss trembled a bit as his hands were untied, and immediately he raised them up to take off his blindfold. He was sitting at a table, surrounded by vicious-looking men who had guns aimed at him. On the table was an inkwell, and next to that was a piece of paper. It was already written on, and Alastair’s name was signed in neat cursive beneath it. There was another space where Castiel’s seal was supposed to go. Castiel skimmed it and found, to his horror, that it was a ransom note intended to be sent to his parents, and that these people wanted him to stamp his seal to show proof that they had Castiel in their possession.

            “I’d rather die,” Castiel growled. They were asking for four million dollars, a sum that would cripple even his parents, as wealthy as they were. Yes, he did hate the fact that they’d banished Gabriel and only cared about Castiel because he had power in the government (he still had yet to find a way to break the news to them of his recent change in occupation), but Zachariah and Naomi Novak did not deserve to pay a ransom for their son. They were still his parents, after all.

            “I’m pretty sure you’ll be singing a different tune once you realize we have that little piece of immigrant shit as well,” grouched one of the men, who cocked his pistol. Castiel could barely hear anything over the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears, and he felt like his heart was going to stop. They had Dean. From the look on the man’s face, they didn’t know just how much Dean meant to Castiel, but they were pretty sure that Castiel wouldn’t want him hurt or killed. How did they even find Dean? Did they track him back to his job and then take him? Have they been torturing him in the meantime?

“What have you done with him?” Castiel demanded, and he was glad that he managed to keep the quiver out of his voice.

“Oh, he’s fine. For now, at least,” Alastair chuckled darkly, startling Castiel as he emerged from the group of people, looking like a god amongst peasants in his fancy attire. “But every time you refuse to stamp your seal, I’ll get one of my boys to stab him once. You may not know where or how deeply, but he’ll be stabbed, all right. He might die from the first slice, he might slowly suffer and bleed out, but I can guarantee that every refusal brings your stupid, slimy friend closer to becoming a human shish-kebab. Understand?” Castiel nodded, trying to hide the fact that he was trembling so hard he feared he’s shake right out of his skin. He began to take off his ring, but the nativist shook his head, giving a pointed look at Castiel’s sleeve.

 Seals couldn’t be forged like signatures could, and apparently these nativists had discovered the Novak family secret; they didn’t carry around rings to stamp their seal. It was branded onto their skin. If a Novak stamped their letter with the false seal on the ring, the person receiving the letter, if they were related, would immediately know that something was wrong; the ring had either been stolen or the Novak actually had a different meaning than what was written on the letter. With trembling fingers, Castiel rolled up his cuff to reveal a swirling symbol the size of a dime, scarred onto his lower wrist.

Acutely aware of the sizable amount of gun barrels aimed in his direction, he dipped his index finger into the inkwell and dabbed the scar, recalling the agony of the burn that his parents had tried to help him through, though it did little to help when his father was the one holding the branding iron. Slowly, he stamped the paper.

 

\----Җ----

 

            “C’mon, Bela, git!” Benny bellowed as the Arabian mare balked, eying the Brooklyn Bridge with wild eyes. He managed to whip her back up into a canter, but her ears were alternating between standing straight up and being pinned against her neck. They passed cars and carriages, and Sam was thankful for the fact that, unlike Bela, Bones just seemed to be regarding everything with detached interest rather than fear. Since the dog couldn’t’ve possibly kept up with them, Achilles was now riding with Sam, and even though the Rhodesian ridgeback didn’t seem to be enjoying it at all, he didn’t complain. They thundered down the line, and Bela continued to give Benny a hard time, the mare spooking way too easily for his liking. Sam continued on with Bones, and he was glad for the dappled horse’s incredible size; it made people move out of the way faster. People gawked as they flew past them, and after giving her a few smacks on the rump, Benny was finally having some luck with his horse, who rode like the wind when she wasn’t stalling.

            “Follow me!” Sam called back, and Benny gave him a short salute as the bridge bled into the city. Towering buildings loomed on their side, their windows blazing with yellow light as if people just couldn’t find it in themselves to sleep, even at this late hour. These streets were a bit unfamiliar to Sam, but he remembered enough from his time in the tenement to know where things were. Bones’s canter began to slow, and Sam felt incredibly bad for the big horse; he was getting quite the workout, with only a small, short break in between, but despite this, Sam begged for more. For the horse to go faster. His brother was in danger, and he needed to get there as fast as possible. The Percheron seemed to understand him, by some miracle, and put on a burst of speed as they raced towards Alastair’s factory.

            As soon as they arrived, they were dismounting, and Achilles seemed to be incredibly glad to have his four paws on the ground again. Bones was breathing heavily, and Sam patted his neck, promising extra carrots, and the horse somehow managed to give him an accusing look, as if he was skeptical that same would hold up his promise. Bela was taking her hard gallop with as much complaining as possible. She whinnied and stamped her feet, her tail lashing and her ears pinning to her head as she tried to bite a chunk out of Benny’s leg as he dismounted.

            “Stop your fussin’, you bitch,” the stable hand growled as he hitched her to the nearby post with Bones, who seemed to want nothing to do with his companion’s whickering and whining. The Arabian, thankfully, knew that Bones was far too big of an adversary to anger, so she refrained from kicking or biting. Sam and Benny had enough on their hands; they didn’t want to have to deal with quarreling horses as well. The two of them looked up at the foreboding structure that was Alastair’s car factory. Its lights were off, making it seemed abandoned, and going in there was on the bottom of Sam’s list of things he wanted to do, though they didn’t really have much of a choice. They left their horses to chug water from the troughs, and slowly approached the door.

            Sam tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, which was both a good sign and a bad sign. “I guess we’re going in, then.” He made a move to step over the threshold and into the darkness, but Benny’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

            “You think we’re going in there without protection?” the stable hand scoffed, and suddenly Sam was being given a pistol, which was loaded and ready to be used. Sam was abruptly thankful for what little training he’d had from his father when he was younger. Those times had been the better times, when his dad hadn’t been so drunk he was falling down. “Let’s go find Dean and Master Novak.”

            They slipped into the yawning expanse of blackness, and Sam found it quite idiotic that they hadn’t brought a lantern or something to illuminate the area, which was hazardous to say the least. Benny kept close to Sam’s side, and for a while they fumbled around in the darkness, trying to make as little noise as possible but ultimately failing as they knocked over tools and kicked tin buckets out of the way. The only other sound, really, was Achilles’s claws clicking against the floor as the Rhodesian ridgeback sniffed around and came up with nothing. Then Sam caught a glimpse of a light in the distance. It was faint, but it was definitely there, and the immigrant patted Benny’s shoulder and gestured to the light, which they began to slowly pick their way towards. Achilles tailed them warily, his nose twitching and his eyes bright as he scanned the darkness.

            When they finally reached the source of the light, they found that a small lantern had been left beside a heavy metal door that was securely padlocked. Benny and Sam exchanged a look and Sam took out his lock-picking equipment once more, sweat beading on his forehead as his fingers shook and caused him to fumble with the tools. Benny and Achilles stood watch, and when the door finally swung open, Achilles bounded inside before Sam could stop him. A startled, muffled cry could be heard, and Sam snatched up the lantern and held it up, only to find Achilles showering a very-much-surprised Dean with an uncountable amount of dog kisses. The elder Winchester was gagged and tied to a chair, and tears began to leak out of the corners of his eyes as Benny and Sam rushed over to untie him.

            “Where’s Cas? Is he with you? Did you get him out before me?” were the first questions out of Dean’s mouth. They weren't questions on how his brother and his good friend gotten there, or what they were going to do now; they were questions that clearly expressed Dean’s concern for his lover, and the fact that Castiel was in incredible danger was only made all the more prominent when Dean stated, “They’re using him for ransom.”

            “I can only assume you have no damn clue where they’re keeping him?” Benny asked, and Dean shrugged helplessly, still visibly trembling. Sam noted the robe burns on his brother’s wrists; when they’d taken him, the elder Winchester sure as hell didn’t go quietly, and it was just what Sam would expect from him. “Fine, let’s get moving.”

            With the extra light, it was much easier to navigate through the maze of paths in between the conveyer belts, which were brimming with half-made cars. Cars that were created using the labor and exploitation of immigrants who didn’t know any better than to refuse the offer of work here. Immigrants like Sam and Dean. Achilles prowled ahead of them, his nose to the ground, and the trio could do nothing but put their faith in the dog; he was their best chance of finding Castiel in time, what with his acute sense of smell.

            “This place feels like a grave,” Dean murmured, the sound of his throat clicking echoing through the facility as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I never wanted to come back here again. I hated this place so much that I’m glad that I was unconscious when they dragged me in here. That way, I wouldn’t’ve had to see this and know I was being held hostage in the same place where I was a prisoner, even if people said I was free.”

            “I can only agree,” Sam ground out through gritted teeth, his fist tightening on the handle of his gun as he regarded the station where he’d attached the back right wheel to the cars more times than he could possibly count.

Suddenly, Achilles stopped in his tracks, his muscles tensing and his body going as still as a statue’s. His ears perked, and a muscle in his haunch jumped as he began to growl low in his throat, his fur bristling. Moments later, the sound of voices and footsteps came into their line of hearing. The trio and their trusty canine immediately scrambled for a hiding place, and eventually managed to wriggle their way under the conveyer belt, their breathing coming out short and fast as the voices and footsteps grew louder. Sam was quick to extinguish their lantern.

            “The boss swears on his life that he heard something blundering around up here,” stated a low, gravelly voice as its owner strolled down the path. The hidden intruders couldn’t see his face, only his grubby trousers and worn boots, but the formidable-looking gun tucked into his waistband was not to be overlooked. His arms were burly and tattooed, and his fingers were like sausages, though there was really no time to make fun of them since they could easily strangle the life out of someone if they managed to close around a neck.

            “What the hell is he talking about?” scoffed another voice that boasted a heavy Brooklyn accent. “There ain’t nothing here.” Its owner was a bit lankier, with baggy jeans and shoes that looked like they’d once been clean, but that time had been long ago. He was carrying a huge rifle in his arms, and judging by the near-professional way he held it, he had experience. Sam swallowed hard as he imagined his skull exploding and his brains splattering with the force of a .7 caliber bullet, which the man had plenty of, judging from his full-to-bursting ammo bag.

            “It’s just his paranoia, I guess,” the first voice replied tiredly, and then he fell silent, stopping in his tracks. Sam’s heart slammed against his ribcage as the light from the man’s lantern swept around. Achilles was, thankfully, silent, and Sam reminded himself to stuff the dog full of treats when they got home. It wasn’t like he hadn’t expected anything less; Achilles was highly trained, and the dog probably thought this was just another hunting trip, except instead of lions the prey was humans.  

“What is it?” the man with the rifle asked, and Sam heard the distinct sound of the safety being turned off. The first man didn’t reply, and Sam held his gun out in front of him as he prepared to see one of them stoop down and take a good look at their hiding place before shooting them all full of lead. Benny, slowly and silently, switched off the safety, his fingers hovering over the trigger as he aimed at the man with the rifle’s hand, which would effectively cripple him and keep him from aiming well. Sam put a hand on the stable hand’s wrist before he could do anything else, shaking his head, and Benny reluctantly lowered his gun.

“Just thought I heard something,” the first man muttered, still high on alert.

“Man, this place is crawling with rats. I reckon it was just one of those,” the man with the rifle replied, and Sam finally allowed himself to breathe when the two began to continue on down the line. When they were out of sight and out of earshot, the renegades finally dared to wriggle out of their hiding spot, still very much shaken from the encounter despite the fact that nothing had really happened.

“Why didn’t you let me shoot?” Benny whispered as Sam lit the lantern once more, watching the flame dance and twirl as if it had no worries at all. If only things were that simple.

Sam softly replied, “Guns are loud. Only use them if you absolutely need to; we don’t want to alert the rest of the people in this facility that we’re here. We need the element of surprise to find Cas.”

“Good call,” Dean stated, giving Sam a nod, and the younger Winchester basked in the praise from his brother for a moment before ushering Achilles on and getting moving. Occasionally, they heard voices from the two men, but they never sounded close enough that they should extinguish their lantern, which they’d decided to drape with a cloth to dim the light slightly.

Then, Achilles began to trot on more briskly, his nose to the ground, and his tail beginning to propel back and forth. The three men exchanged a look as the dog began to bound forward a few paces, stop and wait for them to catch up, and then repeat the process.

“We’re close,” Sam murmured, and they began to tread more lightly as they approached a door that was similar to the one that had led to Dean’s cell. Only this time, there were two guards stationed outside, both who were clearly the men that had been patrolling; one of them held a rifle and had baggy pants, and the other had work boots and scuffed-up trousers. Sam could easily see by the light of the guards’ lantern, so he extinguished his and set it aside, creeping behind an unstable and dangerous-looking piece of equipment to survey them from afar. Dean, Benny, and Achilles followed, and the dog seemed to be growing more nervous by the minute, to the point where Sam feared he would spook and blow their cover.

“We have to find a way to take out the guards,” Dean murmured, his eyes narrowing. “We can’t use our guns, but we can’t take them in a fistfight, either.”

“Maybe we don’t have to kill them,” Benny mused, and suddenly he was off, whistling softly to Achilles and getting the dog to bound after him. They were gone before anyone else could object, and Sam and Dean could only wait helplessly in silence.

            “Stai bene _?_ ” Sam asked quietly, the Italian rolling much more easily off his tongue than English ever could.

_Are you okay?_

“ _Fine, why?_ ” Dean countered a little too defensively, sounding anything but fine. He kept rubbing his arms and the rope burns, and Sam needed to make sure that they were properly checked out, less they get infected.

            “ _You’re my brother, and I’m just making sure you’re okay_ ,” Sam reassured.

            “ _Thanks, Sammy_ ,” Dean sighed, and in that moment he looked ten years older. The shadows under his eyes were dark, the lines of his face more defined, and he hadn’t been able to shave in a while, leaving him with a very prominent scruff. “ _I’m just really worried about Cas. What if they’re torturing him?_ ”

            “ _They won’t be doing that, not if they want the ransom_ ,” Sam explained firmly, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself of this fact.

            Abruptly, the sound of Achilles’s baying ripped through the silence, echoing throughout the nearly-deserted factory and making Sam and Dean nearly jump right out of their skin. The guards were immediately on high alert, their guns drawn as they scanned the darkness beyond the light of their lamps. The man with the rifle motioned to his companion and the two took off, leaving Sam and Dean to sneak out into the open and toward the door. Sam felt helpless and exposed; he was out in the open and the bright light from the lantern was shining on him, but he couldn’t afford to feel any more anxious than he already was as he peeked through the small window in the door. It revealed the backs of at least five people clustered in a semicircle around what was clearly Cas tied to the chair in a similar way that Dean had been, only this time there was a table in front of him. Another man, whose voice was muffled to the point of incomprehensibleness and yet still achingly familiar, was talking to the former ward boss with a condescending tone that chilled Sam to his very bone.

            Luckily, this door wasn't locked, and all Sam would have to do was open the door and start shooting. All of the men were clearly armed though, and Dean had no weapons except his fists. They were incredibly outnumbered, and yet, despite the fact that his conscience and his instincts had joined forces to scream a big fat “NO!” to him, Sam slowly turned the knob and allowed the door to swing open silently. The men didn’t hear him, or if they did they didn’t acknowledge him, and with trembling hands Sam raised his gun and began firing.

 

\----Җ----

 

**_THE NEW YORK TIMES_ **

_New York, Thursday, July 23 rd, 1914 _

**NEW YORK GETS WHIPPED INTO SHAPE BY UP-AND-COMING POLITICIAN: HATE CRIMES DROP BY 40% AND PROMINENT BUSINESSMAN ARRESTED UNDER CHARGES OF KIDNAPPING AND ASSAULT**

            Samandriel Novak isn’t taking no for an answer. The brother of the incredibly prominent retired politician, Castiel Novak, this young man, elected into office after Woodrow Wilson signed the bill banning all forms of bribery for votes and therefore banning ward bosses, is a vigilant Progressive and is bringing reform down upon New York like a hurricane. He’s jailed hundreds of corrupt politicians and businessmen, and has even gone so far as to replace half of the police force to make it less biased; many immigrants have been appointed as officers, and even some people of color!

            “This sprawling metropolis that we call home is a place where anyone can be anything,” Samandriel preaches during his first speech as mayor of New York City. “We cannot afford to judge people by their ethnicity or the color of their skin. The time for reform is now, and I will stop at nothing to make sure that justice is exacted upon every scoundrel that has dared to swindle others for money and get away with it.”

            And Samandriel did uphold his promise, and during his first week of office he opened up a case against the entrepreneur Alastair Brown, accusing him of kidnapping both his brother Castiel and Castiel’s close friend, an Italian immigrant named Dean Winchester. Samandriel claimed that Alastair had held his brother for ransom from the Novak family, and was planning on killing Dean, but with the help of one of Castiel’s stable hands and Dean’s brother, Sam Winchester, they were freed. The police investigated and found Alastair to be behind not only the kidnapping, but other organized killings of immigrants all over New York City and Long Island. He also was under violation for paying below the minimum wage, and is currently serving a life sentence behind bars.

            Samandriel also plans to…

 

\----Җ----

 

            Dean closed the newspaper, smiling at the photograph of Samandriel standing at the podium, his mouth open mid-speech and his eyes hard with determination. Samandriel “Alfie”, had been a huge help in getting Alastair in jail, where he belongs, and had become incredibly close to Sam and Dean over the last few months. The immigrant folded up the newspaper and placed it gently onto the dresser, extinguishing the candle that he’d been reading by and curling around Cas, who’d looked like he was fast asleep when Dean had last checked, though he couldn’t really see much in the dark now.

            “Dean?” Castiel rasped, and the green-eyed man smiled at the ex-ward boss’s bleary-sounding voice. “Why do you keep reading that article over and over again? Christmas is tomorrow and you still read it every night before bed.”

            “I still can’t believe that happened, that this is happening. All of this change to make this country a better place than it already is,” Dean murmured into Castiel’s hair. “It’s all so exciting.”

            “Well I’d like to sleep, thank you very much, and I’d appreciate it if you learned how to make the pages stop rustling so loudly,” Castiel grouched, hunkering down a little and pulling the comforter farther up over his body. Dean grinned and settled down, glad to be the big spoon for once. He slipped off into a sleep that involved wonderful dreams, all of which he forgot in the morning. Then again, anyone would forget their dreams when the next day was _Natale._

\----Җ----

 

            “Why did you wake me up this early?” Dean grumbled as Castiel dragged him down the steps of the mansion. The two of them were bundled up to fend off the cold December weather, though Dean was still half-asleep and blinking up blearily at the sky. “It isn’t even eight o’ clock yet.”

            “Trust me, it’ll be worth it,” Castiel replied and led Dean along down the path towards the stables. Dean didn’t question it, just allowed himself to be guided, and the two of them enjoyed the beauty of the outdoors, which remained even in the throes of winter. The trees were skeletal, having long since shed all of their leaves, but the air was clear and crisp, nipping at the two lovers’ noses and cheeks and turning them red. Animals rustled in the undergrowth, some of which still had foliage, and birds could clearly be seen from where they hunkered down in the trees.

            “So, how’s your new job been?” Dean asked, his gloved fingers lacing through Castiel’s as they walked along.

            “It’s been no better or worse than the last time you asked me this question,” the ex-ward boss responded, and Dean chuckled. Castiel couldn’t help but grow mesmerized as he watched Dean walk along. Now that he’d officially lost his Italian tan, his pale skin made the green of his eyes pop out even more, and the rosy color that was beginning to tinge his cheeks, nose, and ears made him look like a meticulously crafted porcelain doll. “Joshua is very fair and kind, and I’ve slowly been climbing the ranks.”

            “You know that much about real estate already?” Dean inquired, incredulous, and Castiel just gave a noncommittal shrug.

            “Well, I’ve been studying it to make sure I don’t make a fool of myself, and so far that’s been working out pretty well for me,” he replied, and the two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence. Dean longed to bring Achilles out, but the dog’s leg had been injured during the fight to get Dean and Castiel out of Alastair’s clutches. He was healing fine, he just couldn’t walk for long distances as of that moment. Finally, they rounded the bend, and their footsteps began to ring out in the quiet as dirt bled into cobblestones. Many of the stable hands weren’t up at this hour, but Benny certainly was, and he was wearing a shit-eating grin on his face that Dean looked highly suspicious of.

            “Are we going out for a ride?” Dean asked hesitantly as they stepped over the threshold and into the warmth of the building. A fire or two must've been going upstairs in the stable hand’s rooms, and Castiel rubbed together his hands, his fingers having gone numb despite being cloaked in his gloves. “Because I don’t think I can keep up this early in the morning.”

            “No, we’re not going for a ride,” Castiel replied, grinning, and Dean quirked an accusing eyebrow as they continued down the line, greeting the horses as they passed. Castiel patted Lincoln Continental on the neck and the Quarter Horse whinnied and made a movement that suggested he was going to nuzzle Cas, but instead the horse began lipping at the man’s pockets in search for carrots.

            “Gluttonous bastard,” Castiel snorted and stroked his horse’s nose, reluctantly continuing on. They passed row after row of horses, and Dean was hard set on getting to know all of the new horses that had been bought to replace the ones that the nativists had killed. Samuel Colt Jr., the new Mustang, whickered a greeting, and Adam and Eve, the twin Gypsy Vanners that were replacements for Eve, completely ignored them as they pranced around in their paddock.

            “C’mon, Cas, not now,” Dean murmured softly as the ex-ward boss led Dean over to Amara’s empty stall. The immigrant balked, letting go of Castiel’s hand, and shook his head. “It’s too early in the morning to grieve.” Castiel smiled at Dean and then whistled softly, clucking his tongue and tapping at the edge of the stall. A small black nose poked over the edge, snuffling around. Dean’s mouth dropped open, and he shoved past Castiel to gaze into the stall.

            “Merry Christmas, Dean,” Castiel whispered as the immigrant watched the Friesian foal with an expression of total shock. “Her name is Impala.”       When Dean finally managed to regain control of his vocal cords, the first words out of his mouth were, “Oh my god.” Impala looked up at Dean curiously, her ears rotating this way and that and her eyes bright with intelligence. “She’s mine?”

            “Indeed,” Castiel replied. “I got her for cheap. Her mother had abandoned her for some reason, and the owners thought that she had a terminal illness that only animals could detect. They’d been desperate to sell her off, and once I purchased her and took her to the vet, he concluded that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her.” Castiel barely was able to finish the sentence when Dean threw his arms around the man, kissing him with abandon. It was chaste, because Dean was immediately unlatching the gate and stepping into the stall, but it still rocked Castiel to his very core and made him feel severely love drunk.

            “Hiyah, Impala,” Dean murmured, crouching a bit so he could be eye-to-eye with the foal. “I’m Dean.” The little horse nosed at him curiously, her tiny tail flicking back and forth, and after getting her bearings, allowed Dean to stroke her neck. She was about the size of an incredibly large dog or a small pony, considering that Friesians were a larger breed, and could easily have tackled Dean if she wanted to. “We’re going to be great friends.” Castiel slipped into the stall with them, and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

            There were tears in the immigrant’s eyes.

 

\----Җ----

 

            “How did you meet Sam and Dean, Uncle Cas?” asked Hester, Anna’s oldest daughter, as she sat down in front of Cas’s chair. Her skirts were askew, her hair a bit messy from all the roughhousing she’d been doing with Samandriel’s kids, but her eyes were bright, and she gave Castiel a gap-toothed smile. Gabriel, Anna, and Samandriel exchanged a look, knowing clearly well just how close Dean and Castiel were, but Zachariah and Naomi actually seemed genuinely curious.

            Dean couldn’t stop grinning. This was his and Sam’s first real Christmas, since their madre died, and on top of the fact that he had a Friesian foal waiting for him back at the stables only made him even more happy. They were in the main living room, and a gigantic Christmas tree lit up the room with beautiful ornaments and rolls of ribbon; it had been incredibly fun to decorate it a few days before. The entire mansion was bedecked in garlands and statues of reindeer, as well as candles that smelled of pine and gingerbread. Artemis and Apollo had graced the family with their presence, the cats making Dean sneeze, though he really didn’t mind since it was entertaining to watch them bat around wads of wrapping paper.

Bee was lounging about on people’s laps, moving from person to person throughout the night, and Achilles sat nearby, uncaring of the fact that Samandriel’s son, Gadreel, was pestering him, pulling on his tail and ears to see if it would cause a reaction. The mansion was alive with the sounds of servants celebrating, and music from a grand piano floated down the hall, undoubtedly coming from either Benny or Charlie, both who excelled when it came to playing the piano. Now that they were exceptionally stuffed from their dinner and had already opened gifts, the Winchesters and the Novaks were ready to hunker down for some good gossip.

            “Yeah, how did you two meet?” Zachariah asked, taking a swig from his glass of eggnog. “I’m dying to know.” The rest of the children filtered in and sat at Castiel’s feet, and Dean chuckled as Castiel sent him a panicked look. According to him, he wasn’t really good with children, but Dean knew otherwise; all of his nieces and nephews loved him.

            “Well…” Castiel hesitated, turning to Dean for guidance, and the immigrant made a “go on” gesture. “Um…” He stood up straighter, setting his glass down, and smiled softly.

 “It was a cool, crisp December morning, and light filtered through the arched windows of Tammany Hall, illuminating all of the tiny dust particles that floated lazily through the air…”

 

 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked it, so please leave a review for your though


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